“My troubles ended when you crossed the courtyard of Roxford,” she replied, taking his hand in both her own, “but yours have not begun.”

“Wherefore, sweetheart?” he asked.  “I thought mine, too, had ended there.”

“No,” with a shake of the ruddy head . . . “no. . .  Your heaviest troubles are yet to come.”

He looked at her doubtfully. . .  “And when do they begin?”

She fell to toying with her rings and drawing figures on her gown.

“That is for you to choose,” she said, with a side-long glance. . .  “Next year, may be, . . . to-morrow, if you wish.”

“You mean------?” he cried.

She sprang away with a merry laugh—­then came slowly back to him.

“I mean, my lord, they will begin . . . when you are Earl of Clare.”

THE END