CHAPTER XXI. 



IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 



Under the greenwood tree, 

 Who loves to lie with me, 

 And turn his merry note 

 Unto the sweet bird s throat, 

 Come hither, come hither, come hither. 



ROSALIND had just laid a spray of apple blos 

 soms on the study table. 



&quot; Well,&quot; I said, &quot; when shall we start ? &quot; 



&quot; To-morrow.&quot; 



Rosalind has a habit of swift decision when she 

 has settled a question in her own mind, and I was 

 not surprised when she replied with a single deci 

 sive word. But she also has a habit of making thor 

 ough preparation for any undertaking, and now she 

 was quietly proposing to go off for the summer the 

 very next day, and not a trunk was packed, not a 

 seat secured in any train, not a movement made 

 toward any winding up of household affairs. I 

 had great faith in her ability to execute her plans 

 with celerity, but I doubted whether she could be 

 ready to turn the key in the door, bid farewell to 

 the milkman and the butcher, and start the very 

 next day for the Forest of Arden. For several past 



