“Tisn’t where a gentleman dies,” she responded, “that makes the difference. ’Tis where he’s born.”

“Oh, damn all this!” he cried abruptly. “I don’t care if your father talks his head off with Dorset talk; and all Blacksod knows that my father threw himself to the dogs. I’m going to live for the rest of my life in Dorsetshire, and I’m going to live alone with my sweet Gerda!”

He hugged her to his heart as he spoke.

“I’m very thankful that you like my whistling,” she said, rather breathlessly, when he let her go. “I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t.”

“Like it!” he cried. “Oh, Gerda, my Gerda, I can’t tell you what it’s like. I’ve never heard anything to touch it and never shall; and that’s the long and short of it!”