THE WANING OF THE YEAR 177 “ Ay, Nick, ’t is passing sweet,” said Carew, quickiy—and no more; but spoke of France, how the lilies grow in the ditches there, and the tall trees stand like soldiers by the road that runs to the land of sunny hills and wine; and of the radiant women there, with hair like night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all at once he stopped as if some one had clapped a hand upon his mouth, and sat and stared into the fire. But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick’s place—a rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory pegs, and a head that ended in an angel’s face. It was strung with bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn. Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did not, being half afraid. “Tut, take it up!” said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to heed. “Take it up—it is for thee.” “For me?” cried Nick—“ not for mine own?” Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. ‘Why should I say it was for thee, if it were not to be thine own?” “But, Master Carew—” Nick began. “