Captain Forrester was the hero of the romance that I had fashioned in my head for Joyce. One bright, frosty winter's day I had driven her into town to market. The sky was blue, the air was sharp, the little icicles hung glittering from the trees and hedge-rows as we drove down the hill; the sea lay steely and calm beyond the waste of white marsh-land that looked so wide in its monotony. The day was invigorating to the spirits, and it had the same effect on father's new as it had on us; the road, besides, was as hard as iron and very slippery.  
Joyce was nervous in a dog-cart, and she had her doubts of the new purchase. For the matter of that, so had I. The mare pulled very hard. However, we got into town well enough, and in the excitement of her purchases Joyce forgot her uneasiness. It was a long time before she was quite suited to her mind in the matter of soap, and ham, and kitchen ; and just as we were leaving I remembered that mother had told me to bring her some tapes and needles.
 
"I've forgotten something, Joyce," said I. "Get in a minute and take the . I'll call a boy to hold the horse's head."
 
She got in, and I a lad hard by, who went to the animal's head. But before I had been in the shop a moment a cry from Joyce called me back. The mare was rearing. Whether the lad had teased her or not I do not know, but the mare was rearing, and at her head, instead of the lad I had called, was Captain Forrester. We did not know what his name was then; we merely saw a tall, good-looking man in smarter clothes than were usually worn by the dandies of the neighborhood, the restless animal, who soon showed that she recognized a friend. Joyce was as white as a sheet; but when the young man turned to me and said, raising his hat, "Miss Joyce Maliphant, I believe," she blushed as red as a poppy.
 
It was strange that he should know her name so well.
 
"No," said I, "I am not Joyce; I am Margaret Maliphant. My sister's name is Joyce."
 
I waved towards her as I . Perhaps I was a little off-hand; folk say I always am. I suppose I must have been, for he muttered a half-apology.
 
"I should not have ventured to intrude," said he, "but that I know the nature of this animal. Strangely enough, she belonged to me once. She is not suitable for a lady's driving."
 
"Why," said I, puzzled and half doubtful, "father bought her only last week from Broderick."
 
"Exactly," smiled he, and I noticed what a pleasant, smile he had. "I sold the mare to Squire Broderick myself. I know him very well."
 
"Oh!" ejaculated I, I am afraid still far from graciously.
 
He was still by the horse, stroking its neck.
 
"Yes," he repeated, and his tone was not a less pleasant because I had spoken so very ungraciously. "She used to belong to me. She has a bit of a temper."
 
"I like a horse with a little temper," answered I. "A horse that has a hard mouth is dull driving."
 
I said it out of pure intent to , for I had been offended at its being supposed I could not drive any horse. As I spoke, I put my foot on the step to mount the dog-cart. As soon as the mare felt the movement behind her she reared again slightly. Captain Forrester quieted her afresh, but still there was no doubt about it, she had reared.
 
"Oh, Margaret," sighed Joyce, "I'm sure we shall never get home safely!"
 
"Nonsense!" cried I, impatiently.
 
I hated to have Joyce seem as though she mistrusted my power of managing a horse, and I hated equally to have her show herself off as a woman with nerves. I had already got up into my place, and I now took the reins from her hands and prepared to give the mare her head.
 
"I think I shall walk, Margaret," said Joyce, in a voice which I knew meant that there would be no persuading her from her purpose. She was not generally , but when she was frightened she would not listen to any reason.
 
Rather than have a scene, I knew it would be best to give in.
 
"Very well; then we will both walk," said I. "You had better get down, and I will drive on and put the cart up at the inn. Reuben will have to walk out this evening and take it home."
 
I know I spoke crossly; it was wrong, but I was annoyed. However, before Joyce had had time to get down I saw that our new friend had gone round to the other side of the dog-cart and was talking to her.
 
"Miss Maliphant," said he—and I could not help remarking what a charming manner he had, and what a fascinating way of fixing his wide-open light-brown eyes full in the face of the person to whom he was speaking, and yet that without anything bold in the doing of it—"Miss Maliphant, will you let me drive you and your sister home? I know how uncomfortable it is to be nervous, and I don't think you would be frightened if I were driving, for, you see, I understand the mare quite well."
 
Joyce blushed, and I bit my lip. It certainly was very to have a perfect stranger setting himself up as a better whip than I was.
 
Joyce answered, "Oh, thank you, I don't think we could trouble you to do that," she said, with a bend of her pretty head.
 
"It would be no trouble," replied he, looking at her. "I am going in your direction." He did not say it eagerly, only with a pleasant smile as though his offer were made out of pure politeness.
 
I looked at him. He was young and handsome, and he was most certainly a gentleman, for he had the most perfect and easy manners that I had ever met with in any man; and he was looking at Joyce as I fancied a man might look at the woman whom he could love. Suddenly all my offence at his want of respect to my powers of driving evaporated; for a thought flashed across my mind. Might this be the lover of whom I had dreamed for my beautiful sister? He had learned her name beforehand; therefore he must have seen her, and also have been attracted by her to wish to find out who she was.
 
Why was it not possible that he had fallen in love with her at first sight, and that he had sought this opportunity of knowing her? Such things had been known to happen, and Joyce was certainly beautiful enough to account for any in an admirer. I stood a moment undecided myself. A young man from the shop where I had made my little purchase came out and put the parcel in the dog-cart. He held another in his hand.
 
"This is for the , captain," said he. "Shall I put it in the carriage?"
 
"No, no, thank you," answered our new friend. "The squire will be driving over one of these days and will fetch it."
 
This settled the question for me.
 
"Captain!"
 
There was something so much more romantic about a captain than about a plain mister. And such a captain! I had met captains before at the Volunteer ball, but not like this one. It did not occur to me for a moment that if the gentleman was a friend of the squire's he must needs belong to the class which I thought I , and therefore should not be a suitable lover for my sister. I was too much fascinated by the individual to remember the class. Joyce looked at me for help.
 
"I don't know what to say, I'm sure," murmured she.
 
The horse began to fidget again at being kept so long standing. There could be no possible objection to a friend of the squire's driving us over.
 
"Thank you," said I, trying to be cool and and not at all eager. "If you would be so kind as to drive us, I shall be very much obliged to you." And turning to the shop-boy I added, "Put the parcel into the carriage."
 
I do not know what the captain must have thought of my sudden change of manner; I did not stop to consider. I jumped to the ground before he had time to help me, and began to let down the back seat of the cart.
 
 
 
"No, no; don't leave the horse," cried I, as he came round to the back to help me. "I know how to do this well. Do get up. Joyce is so very nervous."
 
"As you like," said he, still smiling; and he got up beside Joyce.
 
In a moment I had the seat and jumped into it, and we started off at a smart down the village street. Joyce was not , although vanity prevented her from openly expressing her alarm, as she would have done if I had been at her side. She sat holding on to the cart, with lips parted and eyes fixed on the horse's ears. I had turned round a little on the seat so that I could see her, and I thought that she looked very lovely. I thought Captain Forrester must be of the same mind; but I think he had not much time to look at her just then—the mare kept his hands full. We down the hill over the cobble-stones and out of the town. Soon its red roofs, crowned by the square tower of the ancient church at its summit, were only a feature in the landscape, which I watched gradually into the white background as I sat with my back to the others. Before long I was lost in one of what father would have called my brown studies, and quite forgot to notice whether the two in front of me were getting on well together or not. The vague dream that I had always had about my sister's future was beginning to take shape—it unrolled itself slowly before me in a sweet and picture, to which the fair scene before me imparted life and brilliancy as the sense of it imperceptibly with my thoughts. I had never known what it really was that I desired for my sister's lot. To be the wife of a country bumpkin she was far too beautiful; and yet I thought that nothing should have induced me to help towards mating her with one of the who crushed the people's honest rights. Sir Walter Scott's "Fair Maid of Perth," which I had just finished reading, had lent wings to my youthful imagination; but there were no burghers in these days who held the honorable positions of those smiths and glovers, although no doubt at that time there had been many such living in the very town where we had just been to market, and which was in days of old one of the strongholds of his Majesty's realm. If there had been any such suitors, I think I would have given our "Fair Maid" to one of them; but there was all the difference between the man who owned the linen-draper's shop—even if he did not measure off yards of stuff behind the counter—and the man who fashioned the goods with his own hand and took a pride in making them beautiful. And nowadays there were no men who made armor—there were no men who needed it. War had become a very thing compared to what it was then, when it really was a trial of individual strength; nevertheless, of the professions of which I knew anything, it was still to my mind the finest, and it seemed to me that a fine profession was the only thing between a countryman and a landed such as Squire Broderick. I wonder if I should have thought all this out so if the fine, handsome, and gentlemanly young man who had come across our path had not borne the title of "Captain?" Anyway, it had struck my fancy, as he had struck my fancy—for Joyce.
 
There was something fresh and brave and bright about him, with those wide-open brown eyes, that he fixed so intently upon one's own. I felt sure that he was full of enthusiasm, full of courage and of loyalty—every inch a soldier. He was the first man I had ever seen who impressed me by his personality; and yet with all that, he was so simple, so light and easy.
 
As I look back now upon my first impression of Captain Forrester, I do not think it was an one; I think that he really had a rare gift of , and it was not to be wondered at that I said to myself that this was the noble hero of whom I had dreamed that he should carry off the lily in the woodland shade. He was just the kind of man to fit in with my notion of a and a hero—a notion from those old-fashioned novels of father's library which I in the of my bedchamber when I could snatch a moment from household darning, and mother was not by to pass her remarks upon even such profitable romance-reading as the works of Sir Walter Scott and Jane Austen.
 
As I sat there in the midst of the snow-plain, with the ocean beyond it, and the weather-worn old town the only human thing in the wide landscape, I fixed my thoughts upon that one little spot with all the concentration of my nature, and fell to weaving a romance far more brilliant than anything I had read, or than anything that had yet suggested itself to me in my quiet every-day life. The days of gay tournaments, and fierce hand-to-hand combats, and clad in suits of mail, were no longer; but still, to fight for one's country's fame, to win one's bread by adventure and glory, to kill one's country's and save the lives of her sons, was the grandest thing that could be, I thought; and this Captain Forrester did.
 
As I dreamed, my eyes grew dim thinking of the wife who must send her lover from her, perhaps forever—even though it be to glorious deeds; and as I dreamed, the dog-cart gave a over a stone, and I awoke from my foolish fancies to see that Captain Forrester's hard driving had taken all the out of the mare, and that she was along quite peaceably, while he let the reins hang loose upon her neck, and turned round to talk to my sister Joyce. And as we passed the of tall elms at the foot of the cliff, and began slowly to climb the hill towards the village, I looked out across the cold expanse of white marsh-land to the calm sea beyond, and wondered whether it were true what the books said that the peace of a perfect love could only be won through trouble and heartache. Anyway, the trouble must be worth the reward, since we all admired those who fought for it, and most of us entered the lists ourselves. But no doubt the trouble and the fighting was always on the man's side, and as I caught a glimpse of Joyce's blushing profile and of the Captain's eager gaze, I said to myself that Joyce was beautiful, and that Joyce was sweet, and that Joyce would have a lover to whom no trouble in the whole world would be too much for the sake of one kiss from her lips.