"There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
In the midnight black or the midday blue;
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow and the fruit may grow,
And the Autumn leaves drop crisp and sere;
But whether the sun or the rain or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear."
Whereat, hearing the cheerful song of his honored lady, a great relief shone suddenly in Lord Chesterfield's anxious eyes, and whistling softly to himself he disappeared among the pines.
V
BUT to-night as Lord Chesterfield hurried down through the quiet of the village to his weather-beaten shack along the river, his whistle grew slightly erratic and presently ceased altogether, and when at last he removed the rusty key from the nail by the door, his shining eyes and grim little chin betokened an unusual excitement and determination.