“Prudence,” he said, “how long shall I languish?  Verily am I as one who longs for the dawn.”

“You do not love me half as much as you pretend,” said the girl, still standing by his side, and suffering her hand to be pressed by his.  “There is too wide a difference betwixt us, and I am all the time afraid you are only making a fool of me.”

“By this palm, softer than the down of the cygnet; by thy lips, redder than rubies; by thy diamond eyes, I swear I love thee dearer than my own soul,” exclaimed Spikeman.

“How can you speak of your soul,” said Prudence, smiling as she spoke, “when you know you are talking and acting like a wicked man?”

“Canst thou not understand the liberty of the saints?  Is it not written, that to him only who thinketh a thing to be evil, it is evil?  Surely, I have explained all this, even unto weariness?”

“Aye, it may be so with thee; but I am no saint.  I am afraid I’m doing very wrong.”

“If you thought so,” replied the Assistant, gently drawing her down upon his lap, “would you occupy this place; would a smile beautify those intoxicating lips, and would I read paradise in thine eyes?”

Prudence threw her arm round Spikeman’s neck, and sunk her face upon his shoulder, as if to evince her tenderness and hide her blushes, but in truth, to conceal a disposition to laugh.

“I wish,” she said, presently raising her head, and looking Spikeman bewitchingly in the face, “I knew whether you really mean what you say?”

“Thou art unjust to me, Prudence.  Have I not given every possible proof of affection?  What hast thou asked that I have withheld?  Have I not treated thee as the elect lady of my soul?”

“Nay, there be some things which you refuse to tell me.  I am foolish,” she added, forcing some moisture into her eyes; “but—­but—­”

“But what, O garden of delights?” asked Spikeman, kissing the hypocritical tears away.

“When you refuse me anything, I think you do not love—­love me.”

“Ask, and thou wilt be convinced of the contrary.”

“I am but a woman,” she said, looking at him with a smile so sweet that we almost pardon poor Spikeman his infatuation, “and I feel like dying when I know there is a secret, and cannot get at the bottom of it.”

“What secret?  I understand thee not.”

“If you yourself had not dropped a hint, I had never thought of it; but it was about this Knight they call Sir Christopher Gardiner, whom Governor Winthrop thinks so much of.”

“We will cure him of that folly.  What foolish thing have I said to this girl?” thought the Assistant.  “Prudence,” he added, “this is a matter that cannot concern thee.  Thou wouldst not have me speak of secrets of State?”

“Said I not right!” exclaimed Prudence, rising, and preparing to leave the room, “that your love was but a pretext?  How, I want to know, is a secret of State better than any other?  Now, had I given poor Philip half the encouragement which my silly fondness for thee—­O, dear!—­” and she put her hands up to her eyes.