calm aiid rather pale. There was, moreover, a
look of resolution in the lucid blue eyes she
bent upon her lover, which he did not at first
understand.

"My lady," however, partook her father's
taste for coming to the point; and, taking
advantage of Gerald's momentary perplexity, did
so now.

"You did wrong in coming hither, Mr.
Hurbandine," she began.

"My name is Gerald, Katy," put in Gerald,
softly.

"And mine Taffey," said Katy. "It is no
matter; you did wrong, as I said, in coming—but,
strange to say, I wished to see you, and——"

"Strange!"

"Your imprudence and selfishness have done
me harm—much harm and wrong," continued
the girl, her tears rising. "I have warned—
reproached—entreated, in vain. Now, I have
to tell you, you will never——"

"Stop. Will you not listen?" pleaded
Gerald.

"Certainly, if you will," said Katy, with a
sad little smile. "My speech first—it may
shorten the discussion. My mother has spoken
to me, and does not, I am afraid, quite believe
that I have done all in my power to check this
—what shall I call it?—this habit, this fancy
of yours, for singling me out, among the other
village girls for the high favour of your
notice."

"Not so, Katy.  I have ever been most
guarded——"

"In the presence of your father. Yes," said
Katy. "To do you justice, nothing, on those
occasions, could be stonier more becoming,
that is than your demeanour. Your brother
is more daring. He smiles!"

"He did so for my sake—and yours," added
Gerald, hastily.

"To distract papa's attention from the really
naughty boy," said Katy, with a curl of the
lip, which, nevertheless, quivered in the act.
"It is very kind of Mr. Rochford. Indeed, you
are both very kind—very thoughtful—for
yourselves. On my account, at least, Mr. Hurbandine,
you shall have no more trouble. Let this
little amusement end. It has served its turn,
and London must be pining for your reappearance.
Henceforth, I am the blacksmith's
daughter; you, the squire's son. And if I am
entitled to any wages for my part in the pretty
little play, let it be this"—and the girl drew
herself up with unconscious dignity—"that neither
yourself nor your brother presume to address
me again. Do not, Mr. Hurbandine, do me the
wrong of believing this coquetry or caprice.
These arts are for high-bred ladies in London.
Here, we show what we feel, and mean what
we say. Our acquaintance is ended. Now——
Who is that?" she added, with a look of
unmistakable alarm.

"Who? What? Where?" exclaimed Gerald.

"I thought some one stood in the shubbery-
path, and moved away when I cried out!" said
Katy: " I—I am not quite myself. Perhaps it
was my fancy," she added. "Now, go."

"Now for my speech," was Gerald's reply,
as he moved a step nearer to the window. "I,
too, have made my resolutions. I have been
dreaming, but I awoke to-day; and to what
conviction, what reality? Even this, my darling—
that the whole tribe of Veres and Vavasours,
from the remotest patriarch down to my humble
self, are not to be weighed against one
blacksmith's daughter, nay, not against her smallest
finger or one lock of her silken hair!" He
stopped for an instant. "Katy, will you marry
me? Love, will you be my wife?"

The girl, white with emotion, pressed her
hands to her bosom.

"Mr. Gerald!" she gasped.

"Say Gerald, and I am answered," pleaded
the lover.

"But—your father——?"

"Leave that to me. All will be well.
Speak, dear—your answer?"

"You are foolish, and I am wrong," said
Katy, after a moment's struggle; "but—but—
I love you, dear," and she burst into a passion
of tears.

VI.

IT was a few minutes before the satisfactory
termination of the quarrel just described, that
the worthy squire, while pausing, in his evening
stroll, to prune a tree, was, to his great astonishment,
cannoned against by a young man, who,
with his dress disordered, and a face inflamed
with heat and passion, came dashing through
the trees, as if regardless of all obstructions.

"Hallo, Tom Fullafield! what game's this?"
shouted the squire, recovering his equilibrium.

"It's a providence—squire—findin' you
here," gasped the young farmer. "Go you on
to the corner, that's leadin' to Taffey's farm
and—and you'll see."

"See! See what, man? Rick on fire?"

"Worse, you'll say," returned young Fullafield,
with a sullen fierceness that provoked the
impatient squire into grasping him by the collar.

"What d'ye mean, you blockhead?" he
thundered. "Have you lost both brains and
tongue?"

"There's your son a-kissin' Taffey's daughter,
that's all," returned Thomas, choking with
excitement and insensate rage.

"My son? Which?"

"Mr. Rochford—curse him!" added Tom,
in a lower voice.

The squire's eye flashed, but he displayed no
outward anger.

"Get home, Fullafield," he said; "compose
yourself, and say nothing."

He turned and strode away.

"The boy defies me, then? He shall repent
it! Aye, to the next generation!" he
muttered, furiously.

At the turn of the road, the little farm-house,
indeed, came into view. It was now dark, but
forms were clearly distinguishable, and it so
chanced that, at the moment the squire
obtained a view of what was going forward, Gerald
was being permitted to take (through the
window) a parting embrace of her whom he
now regarded as his affianced wife. The brothers