the river, then she threw off her hat and lay
back in the long dry grass, covering her face
with her shawl. Once or twice I heard a little
moan come from her as I sat musing on the
strangeness that had come over Luke's behaviour
of late. He had used to be too watchfully
attentive. Many a time I had sighed, seeing
him coming over the bridge, and wished that he
would leave me more to myself. He had
disapproved of many of my ways and fancies, and
given much of his time to the task of converting
me to his own habits and likings. Now, when
for Svlvia's sake I could have wished him to be
attentive, he showed no interest in my proceedings.
I could not but think that this was owing
to his absurd prejudice against Sylvia, and I
pondered, wondering what could have been the
origin of this prejudice, which must have taken
root long ago, in the days when he went with my
brother Dick to see her in London. I thought
of his odd desire that she should be kept
ignorant of our engagement. He certainly was
taking especial care that no action of his should
cause suspicion to cross her mind. It flashed
upon me now that perhaps he was looking
forward to breaking off that engagement, hence
his wish to keep it secret, and the sparks of light
on the river danced madly before my eyes as I
strove to stifle the pang of joy that thrilled
through me at the thought. But a moment's
reflection assured me that Luke had no wish to
release me. In many little ways he daily let
me know that he meant to hold me to my word.
It were running headlong into danger to believe
anything but this. "God deliver me from
temptation!" I murmured, as I rose and locked
my arms over my breast, while for a minute the
birds seemed like to turn my brain with the
sudden ecstasy of their singing.

I sat down besides Sylvia, and drew back the
shawl from her beautiful flushed face. Her
eyelashes were wet with tears.

"Sylvia," I said, sadly, "you are fretted with
the weariness of this place. Do not hesitate about
leaving me whenever you wish to go." And I
thought heavily that, with Luke and me for
master and mistress, the Mill-house was never
likely to be a pleasant place of sojourn for anyone.

Sylvia sat up quickly, and, winding her arm
round my neck, said, in her low, wiling,
passionate way:

"Never say that again, Mattie. Were it as
dull as a cavern, there is no place so dear to me
as the Mill-house. When I have to leave it, I
shall be banished out of heaven!"

I started at her vehemence, but recollected
murmuring:

"Ah, yes! that is because it was Dick's
home!" and I felt a pang of conscience for ever
having resented her gaiety, for ever having
imagined that she had ceased to mourn for her loss
and mine. She gave me a little thoughtful stare
out of her soft grey eyes, and then gazed down
past the trees after the current of the river, as if
fascinated by those sparks of light that had danced
so madly before my eyes a few minutes ago.

"Ay!" she repeated, absently; "of course,
because it was Dick's home."

I loved her better at that moment than I had
ever loved her before, and I felt indignant at
Luke for having balked her of a little pleasure.
I went, straight to the house and ordered my
own pony to be harnessed to the phaeton which
I had sometimes driven under Luke's guidance.
I had never cared much for driving myself, but
Luke liked ladies to be a little dashing. I was
determined now to turn my accomplishment to
account .

I said to Sylvia, "If we cannot find a cavalier
gallant enough to be our charioteer, I do not
see why we should not help ourselves. I can
manage Frisky pretty well."

We drove down the pleasant summer lanes
into Streamstown, and stopped at the best shop
while I bought some green and white muslin to
make myself a frock, having promised Elspie to
leave off my sad black gown by Midsummer'sday.
Then we bowled on, along the white
roads, chatting our women's chat, and each, I
believe, doing her best to hide from the other
that there was any troubling cloud hanging
between her and the blue sky that brooded over
our heads.

We had got quite out in the country, and
were breathing exhilarating air, and getting
glimpses of hills and sea. I was driving
cautiously, and was rather proud of my first
independent essay. Turning a corner of the road,
we saw a figure on horseback riding towards
us. Sylvia sat forward, gazed intently at the
figure, and turned red and then pale. Surely
enough the figure was familiar.

"Why, it is Luke Elphinstone!" cried I.

Pressure of business had not kept him from
taking a solitary ride. His neglect of us was
deliberate, his apology untrue. Sylvia, by the
changes of her face, was quicker than I at
seeing this.

"Let me drive," said she, suddenly, snatching
the reins from my hands. The whip began
to dangle in the air, and we were flying along
the road at a break-neck pace.

"Stop, stop!" I cried; "Frisky will not
bear to be whipped like that!" But Sylvia,
with blazing eyes and flushed cheeks, was lashing
his sides without pity, and the insulted little
pony dashed on. We passed Luke with the
swiftness of lightning. I heard him call after
us; Sylvia tried to check our speed, but it was
too late. She threw the reins from her in dismay,
and they trailed on the road. The fields
and hedges spun round us in a dizzy green
ring. Then there was a crash, and I found
myself lying on the ground in great agony.
Luke picked us up. Sylvia escaped unhurt;
but the phaeton was smashed, and my leg was
broken.

CHAPTER V.

SYLVIA moaned so bitterly over my sufferings,
that even Elspie, who had never liked her, was
softened somewhat, and I heard her muttering
to herself that "yon wheedlin' hizzie had a bit
heart after all." No one but Luke knew that
she was the cause of the accident. My father
scolded me for being so rash as to attempt to