'Ay, right well do I; that was no other than my sweet Lady Jane, and since that day I have loved her with all my heart."

"Ay, I well know how dearly you do love the Lady Jane, and that you will ever remember your first meeting with her; but your compact with me of the same date hath gone from your memory."

"Nay, now I perceive that you are deeply aggrieved, Rowland; prithee, tell what hath caused you to look and speak in this reproachful fashion to me? Is it the flowers? I am right sorry about them, but-"

"What about the flowers, Kitty?"

"What? Well, I could not in any wise do other than I did; and I did not know that you would take offence when I did give them to Maggie."

"Listen to me, Kitty; since the days when you and I did run the woods together, and tear our gear i' the brambles, I have loved you right well. I called you my sister because that was the nearest kinship of which I then did wot, and as time passed on, and my love for you increased tenfold, methought that there was no need to tell you of it, because, forsooth, you must already know; but of late I have fancied-I have had strange, grievous fancies, Kitty-that you do find my presence irksome, that you have e'en smiled merrily at my earnest love towards you. Mayhap this is but a

dreary fabrication of my foolish brain, but, at any rate, I have determined to ask you right plain, if, when I have attained a fitting age and position, you will become more than either friend or sister to me, if you will be my wife? Prithee, answer me, for my heart is sorely vexed about the matter. Will you not promise to cleave to me till death, as with all my heart I will promise to cleave to you; ay, and to love you dearer than I love my life, come weal, come woe?"

Kitty looked grieved, astonished, and then she burst into tears.

"No, Rowland; no, no, it cannot be." "You love me not?"

"I said not so."

"You cannot promise to be my wife?"

I would ne'er grieve you by saying 'No' an' I meant 'Yes.' I boast not of much goodness, yet I could ne'er make sport of true hearts-that would be but a mean and cruel game, forsooth!"

"Oh, Kitty, my heart is bound up in you; you have been my life's sunshine, my chief hope, my greatest earthly joy! Dost mean No, in sober earnest?"

Kitty dried her tears, looked steadily into his face, and said,

"Yes, Rowland, in the soberest earnest do I mean no."

The young man started from his seat, and leav

ing her there with her hands firmly clenched together upon her lap, he walked out of the house, and into the cold twilight of the wintry morning.

"Here, master, what cheer?"

"Good: speak to the mariners; fall to't yarely;'

66* * *

down with the top-mast; yare; lower, lower; bring her to try with main course."

THE TEMPEST.

ERFECTLY heedless of the road he was taking, and altogether lacking an object in his walk, except it might be the cooling of his heated brain, Rowland strode rapidly along the main street of the village.

"How mad I have been," thought he, "to go on year after year, building all my hopes for the future upon her; and in my heart deeming her my own, never for a moment doubting that our feelings were mutual. Well, in truth I was blind, as blind as Love himself can be, and now methinks I will travel, ay, travel round the world, if I do but have the chance. It will be easier to forget my woe when I am at a distance from the cause of it,

and from the old scenes which do but serve to bring up recollections that will not tend towards my comfort."

"A fair good morrow to thee!" sounded suddenly in his ears; and turning round he saw behind him the doctor who had succeeded Master Clive.

"Good morrow, sir," was the brief reply.

"Why, my young friend, thou dost look as gloomy as this winter's morn!"

Rowland made no reply.

"Art well in health?"

"Yes, with thanks, sir; but I have a throbbing in my head."

"Ay, truly, and hast not a quick beating about thy heart? Hark ye, boy, hie away for a walk, and when you return try to shake off all trouble, as belike you will shake the dust from your walkingshoes, for my skill is of little worth if you be not suffering sharply from a troubled mind."

Rowland took the advice of his shrewd friend. He walked and walked, until he was thoroughly weary, and as soon as he reached home once more, he straightway divulged to his parents his desire to leave his native village.

This plan, formed in such hot haste, did not surprise them so much as might have been expected, for the tact and affection of his mother had already given her the key to the whole matter. She had