“Why, how much time would she have?  Heaven knows what she considers reasonable, or what you or I should call so; but to my mind she has had time enough, and more by far than I was willing for.  You must bring her to her senses, or let me do so.  To my thought, she is making fools of us both.”

“It is, enough, Guy, that you have my promise.  She shall consent, and I will hasten the matter as fast as I can; but I will not drive her, nor will I be driven myself.  Your love is not such a desperate affair as to burn itself out for the want of better fuel; and you can wait for the proper season.  If I thought for a moment that you did or could have any regard for the child, and she could be happy or even comfortable with you, I might push the thing something harder than I do; but, as it stands, you must be patient.  The fruit drops when it is ripe.”

“Rather when the frost is on it, and the worm is in the core, and decay has progressed to rottenness!  Speak you in this way to the hungry boy, whose eyes have long anticipated his appetite, and he may listen to you and be patient—­I neither can nor will.  Look to it, Munro:  I will not much longer submit to be imposed upon.”

“Nor I, Guy Rivers.  You forget yourself greatly, and entirely mistake me, when you take these airs upon you.  You are feverish now, and I will not suffer myself to grow angry; but be prudent in your speech.  We shall see to all this to-morrow and the next day—­there is quite time enough—­when we are both cooler and calmer than at present.  The night is something too warm for deliberation; and it is well we say no more on the one subject till we learn the course of the other.  The hour is late, and we had best retire.  In the morning I shall ride to hear old Parson Witter, in company with the old woman and Lucy.  Ride along with us, and we shall be able better to understand one another.”

As he spoke, Munro emerged from the cover of the tree under which their dialogue had chiefly been carried on, and reapproached the dwelling, from which they had considerably receded.  His companion lingered in the recess.

“I will be there,” said Rivers, as they parted, “though I still propose a ride of a few miles to-night.  My blood is hot, and I must quiet it with a gallop.”

The landlord looked incredulous as he replied—­“Some more deviltry:  I will take a bet that the cross-roads see you in an hour.”

“Not impossible,” was the response, and the parties were both lost to sight—­the one in the shelter of his dwelling, the other in the dim shadow of the trees which girdled it.

CHAPTER XI.

FOREST PREACHING.