“Thou art speaking of my father; he has been dead five years.  Thy father did not know of his death when he sent thee to England.  And my mother”—­his voice trembled—­“died when I was born.  I was reared without a woman’s love.  Angel was too old to teach me tenderness.  She has tried to guide me; but Kate—­thy father calls thee so—­I have had no one to love me like thee.  I have lived a wild, boisterous life in Scotland most of the time, and after father died I went to France.  I have lived wickedly, Kate; I have given myself over to oaths, and—­and—­and—­drink;—­’twas so last night when I saw for the first time the woman I loved; who was as fair in face, form and soul, as all I had ever pictured or dreamed.  Wilt thou forget my course tongue and try—­try—­to—­to—­to love me, Kate.  Thou wilt say ’tis soon to speak so to thee; but why keep back that ’tis best for me to say and thou to know?” She could not mistake the ring of truth in his voice that was now so pleading.

“Come, come,”—­and as if a happy thought occurred, reached into his pocket and drew forth a letter;—­“here is thy proof that I am Lord Cedric; thy father’s letter,” he held it toward her.  She came and reached her hand for it, timidly.  His Lordship was one of the most passionate of youths, nor could he restrain his ardour.  He caught her hand and drew her to him, meeting her graceful body with his own; his hot breath was upon her hair, and he panted forth;—­“Kate, Kate, I love thee,” his arm was reaching about her, when she called Janet stoutly.  The door was flung open and the nurse’s face looked upon the youth like an ominous thing of strength,—­then surprise broke over it and she spoke forth,—­

“Who art thou, perfidious youth?”

“I am Cedric of Crandlemar, and I was saluting my ward.”  Janet took her mistress from him as he half supported her, and sat down, drawing her into her lap.  Katherine fell to weeping.

“What has happened to thee, Lambkin?”

“I don’t know,” sobbed Katherine, “assure me if ’tis Lord Cedric.”

“We will accept him, anyway, for ’tis a better subject than my Lord Scot of last night.”  Thereupon Cedric fell upon one knee at Janet’s feet, and bent his handsome head to Katherine’s hand and kissed it.

“Nay, nay, thy lips burn me, and I hate thee for it!” She wiped her hand upon her dress, and turned her head from Janet’s bosom and cast a scornful glance through her tears.

“I love her, Janet, and she hates me.  Her father gave her to me to love and guard and—­marry, ’tis in the letter so; and she shall—­”

“Thou talkest too strong to so young a maid; thou must remember that she is but fifteen, and never used to beaux.  Thou art the first man beside her father to so much as touch her hand.”

“She fifteen, ’tis not possible!” and his enamoured glance swept her form,—­“’tis not possible.”  Mistress Katherine’s colour blenched and heightened, for the ardent masculine eyes made her like and hate in turn; his countenance glowed with warm youthfulness which both attracted and repulsed her; and she hid her face again upon Janet’s shoulder.