child?" he asks; are you not afraid that my patience will wear out, and that I shall fall in love with somebody else?"
"No!" I answer saucily; "I am not in the least afraid! Will you wait, Paul?'
"He must not be away too long," says Paul, significantly, "or he won't find his daughter Nell waiting for him when he gets back. For your sake, though, what would I not do for your sweet sake. I will not speak to him about our marriage before he goes."
"Our marriage!" how sweet the words sound! As I muse on their goodness, like a chime of jangled silver bells sweep Silvia's words across my memory, "You will never be Paul Vasher's wife—never!"
Ay! but I am Paul Vasher's love, and that is what you are not, never will be, Silvia. Your wild words are very far away, very puerile and empty to me, as I stand with my lover's arms around me; harm can be worked between two lovers apart, and misunderstanding each other, but what between two who are together in the first flush of acknowledged love, and without a shadow between them?
We take a long while to make our adieux to our parlour, and to cross the field, but now we are standing in the meadow, arguing; he wants to see me safely in at the home gates, I want him to go back to The Towers, lest we meet any one. Where we now stand is perfectly retired, save in harvest-time or seed-time people rarely come this way, but the meadow once left, there is a chance of seeing anybody.
As we stand close together in the gloaming, talking our half-earnest, half-jesting nonsense, out of the grey shadow a man's figure emerges, and comes slowly towards us—George Tempest! He is looking down and walking heavily, with unstrung limbs and bent head he does not see us until he almost brushes our gar-
