well what I knew, as what I merely surmised, or guessed, concerning Lorna’s parentage.  All this she received with great tears, and wonder, and fervent thanks to God, and still more fervent praise of her son, who had nothing whatever to do with it.  However, now the question was, how to act about these writs.  And herein it was most unlucky that we could not have Master Stickles, with his knowledge of the world, and especially of the law-courts, to advise us what to do, and to help in doing it.  And firstly of the first I said, “We have rogues to deal with; but try we not to rogue them.”

To this, in some measure, dear mother agreed, though she could not see the justice of it, yet thought that it might be wiser, because of our want of practice.  And then I said, “Now we are bound to tell Lorna, and to serve her citation upon her, which these good fellows have given us.”

“Then go, and do it thyself, my son,” mother replied with a mournful smile, misdoubting what the end might be.  So I took the slip of brown parchment, and went to seek my darling.

Lorna was in her favourite place, the little garden which she tended with such care and diligence.  Seeing how the maiden loved it, and was happy there, I had laboured hard to fence it from the dangers of the wood.  And here she had corrected me, with better taste, and sense of pleasure, and the joys of musing.  For I meant to shut out the brook, and build my fence inside of it; but Lorna said no; if we must have a fence, which could not but be injury, at any rate leave the stream inside, and a pleasant bank beyond it.  And soon I perceived that she was right, though not so much as afterwards; for the fairest of all things in a garden, and in summer-time most useful, is a brook of crystal water; where a man may come and meditate, and the flowers may lean and see themselves, and the rays of the sun are purified.  Now partly with her own white hands, and partly with Gwenny’s red ones, Lorna had made of this sunny spot a haven of beauty to dwell in.  It was not only that colours lay in the harmony we would seek of them, neither was it the height of plants, sloping to one another; nor even the delicate tone of foliage following suit, and neighbouring.  Even the breathing of the wind, soft and gentle in and out, moving things that need not move, and passing longer-stalked ones, even this was not enough among the flush of fragrance, to tell a man the reason of his quiet satisfaction.  But so it shall for ever be.  As the river we float upon (with wine, and flowers, and music,) is nothing at the well-spring but a bubble without reason.

Feeling many things, but thinking without much to guide me, over the grass-plats laid between, I went up to Lorna.  She in a shower of damask roses, raised her eyes and looked at me.  And even now, in those sweet eyes, so deep with loving-kindness, and soft maiden dreamings, there seemed to be a slight unwilling, half confessed withdrawal; overcome by love and duty, yet a painful thing to see.