“Surely,” said the gossips, “it cannot be that gypsy niece of the Squire, that odd, black-browed girl, who scours over the country in all weathers, on that elfish black pony, with her hair flying,—­for all the world as though in search of her wild relations.  No, the blood of the Willertons would never run so low as that;—­it must be sweet Miss Bessie, and she is a match for a lord.”

For once the gossips were right.  But it is with the poor “Rommany girl,” not with the heiress of Burleigh Grange, that we have to do.

On the morning succeeding the play, Zelma Burleigh, taking in her hand an odd volume of Shakspeare, one of the few specimens of dramatic literature which her uncle’s scant library afforded, strolled down a lonely lane, running back from the house, toward the high pasture-lands, on which grazed and basked the wealthy Squire’s goodly flocks and herds.  This was her favorite walk, as it was the most quiet, shaded, out-of-the-way by-path on the estate.  She now directed her steps to a little rustic seat, almost hidden from view by the pendent branches of an old willow-tree, and close under a hawthorn-hedge, now in full, fragrant bloom.  Here she seated herself, or rather flung herself down, half languidly, half petulantly, an expression of ennui and unrest darkening her face,—­the dusky traces of a sleepless night hanging heavily about her eyes.  She opened her book at the play of “Romeo and Juliet,” and began to read, not silently, nor yet aloud, but in a low, dreamy tone, in which the sounds of Nature about her, the gurgle of a brook behind the hedge, the sighing of the winds among the pendulous branches of the willow, the silver shiver of the lance-like leaves, the murmurous coming and going of bees, the loving duets of nest-building birds, all seemed to mingle and merge.  As she read, a new light seemed to illumine the page, caught from her recent experience of dramatic personation and scenic effects, limited and unsatisfactory though that experience had been.  In fancy, she floated over the stage, as the gay young Juliet at the masquerade; then she caught sight of young Romeo, and, lo! his face was that of the sentimental hero of the last night’s tragedy, but ennobled by the glow and dignity of genuine passion.  In fancy, she sat on the balcony, communing with night and the stars,—­the newly-risen star of love silvering all life for her.  Then, leaning her cheek upon her hand, she poured forth Juliet’s impassioned apostrophe.  When she came to the passage,—­

  “O Romeo, Romeo!—­wherefore art thou Romeo?”

she was startled by a rustling of the leaves behind her.  She paused and looked round fearfully.  A blackbird darted out of the hedge and away over the fields.  Zelma smiled at her own alarm, and read on, till she reached the tender adjuration,—­

  “Romeo, doff thy name;
  And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
  Take all myself!”

when,—­suddenly, a fragrant shower of hawthorn-blossoms fell upon the page before her, and the next instant there lightly vaulted over the hedge at her side the hero of her secret thoughts, the young player, Lawrence Bury!  He stood before her, flushed and smiling, with his head uncovered, and in an attitude of respectful homage; yet, with a look and tone of tender, unmistakable meaning, took up the words of the play,—­