Swiftly she went to the window and raised it without noise, and in a moment they were locked in each other’s arms. “Darling, darling,” was audible; and “Oh, Ry! do you love me still?” “Adore you, darling! adore you, my little violet, that grew in the shade—my only, only darling.”

“And I have been so miserable. Oh, Ry—that heart-breaking disappointment—that dreadful moment—you’ll never know half I felt; as I knocked at that door, expecting to see my own darling’s face—and then—I could have thrown myself from the rock over that glen. But you’re here, and I have you after all—and now I must never lose you again—never, never.”

“Lose me, darling; you never did, and never shall; but I could not go—I dare not. Every fellow, you know, owes money, and I’m in that sorry plight like the rest, and just what I told you would have happened, and that you know would have been worse; but I think that’s all settled, and lose me! not for one moment ever can you lose me, my beautiful idol.”

“Oh, yes—that’s so delightful, and Ry-and his poor violet will be so happy, and hell never love anyone but her.”

“Never, darling, never.”

And he never did.

“Never—of course, never.”

“And I’m sure it could not be helped your not being at Carwell.”

“Of course it couldn’t—how could it! Don’t you know everything? You’re my own reasonable, wise little girl, and you would not like to bore and worry your poor

Ry. I wish to God I were my own master, and you’d soon see then who lores you best in all the world.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it.”

“Yes, darling, you are; if we are to be happy, you must be sure of it. If there’s force in language, or proof in act, you can’t doubt me—you must know how I adore you—what motive on earth could I have in saying so, but one? ”

“None, none, darling, darling Ry—it’s only my folly, and you’ll forgive your poor foolish little bird; and oh, Ry, is not this dreadful—but better, I suppose, that is, when a few miserable hours are over, and I gone—and we happy—your poor little violet and Ry happy together for the rest of our lives.”

“I think so, I do, all our days; and you understand everything I told you?”

“Everything—yes—about tomorrow morning—quite.”

“The walk isn’t too much?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“And old Dulcibella shall follow you early in the day to Draunton—you remember the name of the house?”

“Yes, the Tanzy Well.”

“Quite right, wise little woman, and you know, darling, you must not stir out—quiet as it is, you might be seen; it is only a few hours’ caution, and then we need not care; but I don’t want pursuit, and a scene, and to agitate my poor little fluttered bird more than is avoidable. Even when you look out of the window keep your veil down; and—and just reach the Tanzy House, and do as I say, and you may leave all the rest to me. Wait a moment—who’s here? No—no-nothing. But I had better leave you now—yes, darling—it is wiser—some of the people may be peeping, and I’ll go.”

And so a tumultuous good-night, wild tears, and hopes, and panic, and blessings, and that brief interview was over.

The window was shut, and Alice Maybell in her room—the lovers not to meet again till forty miles away; and with a throbbing heart she lay down, to think and cry, and long for the morning she dreaded.

Morning came, and the breakfast hour, and the old Squire over his cup of coffee and rasher, called for Mrs. Durdin, the house-keeper, and said he—

“Miss Alice, I hear, is ailing this morning; ye can see old Dulcibella, and make out would she like the doctor should look in, and would she like anything nice for breakfast—a shoe of the goose-pie, or what? and send down to the town for the doctor if she or old Dulcibella thinks well of it, and if it should be in church time, call him out of his pew, and find out what she’d like to eat or drink;” and with his usual gruff nod he dismissed her.

“I should be very happy to go to the town if you wish, sir,” said Charles Fairfield, desiring, it would seem, to re-establish his character for politeness, &ldq............