"Indeed, though I have asked myself that question frequently of late, I have as yet found no answer, unless it be my busy, care-free life, with the warm sun about me and the voice of the wind in the trees."
"Yes, perhaps that is it."
"And yet I don't know," I went on thoughtfully, "for now I come to think of it, my life has always been busy and care-free, and I have always loved the sun and the sound of wind in trees—yet, like Horace, have asked 'What is Happiness?' and looked for it in vain; and now, here—in this out-of-the-world spot, working as a village smith, it has come to me all unbidden and unsought—which is very strange!"
"Yes, Peter," said Charmian, still busy with her pen.
"Upon consideration I think my thanks are due to my uncle for dying and leaving me penniless."
"Do you mean that he disinherited you?"
"In a way, yes; he left me his whole fortune provided that I married a certain lady within the year."
"A certain lady?"
"The Lady Sophia Sefton, of Cambourne," said I.
Charmian's pen stopped in the very middle of a letter, and she bent down to examine what she had been writing.