[Illustration:  502.jpg In a shower of damask roses]

“Darling,” I said, “are your spirits good?  Are you strong enough to-day, to bear a tale of cruel sorrow; but which perhaps, when your tears are shed, will leave you all the happier?”

“What can you mean?” she answered trembling, not having been very strong of late, and now surprised at my manner; “are you come to give me up, John?”

“Not very likely,” I replied; “neither do I hope such a thing would leave you all the happier.  Oh, Lorna, if you can think that so quickly as you seem to have done, now you have every prospect and strong temptation to it.  You are far, far above me in the world, and I have no right to claim you.  Perhaps, when you have heard these tidings you will say, ‘John Ridd, begone; your life and mine are parted.’”

“Will I?” cried Lorna, with all the brightness of her playful ways returning:  “you very foolish and jealous John, how shall I punish you for this?  Am I to forsake every flower I have, and not even know that the world goes round, while I look up at you, the whole day long and say, ‘John, I love, love, love you?’”

During these words she leaned upon me, half in gay imitation of what I had so often made her do, and half in depth of earnestness, as the thrice-repeated word grew stronger, and grew warmer, with and to her heart.  And as she looked up at the finish, saying, “you,” so musically, I was much inclined to clasp her round; but remembering who she was, forbore; at which she seemed surprised with me.

“Mistress Lorna,” I replied, with I know not what temptation, making little of her caresses, though more than all my heart to me:  “Mistress Lorna, you must keep your rank and proper dignity.  You must never look at me with anything but pity now.”

“I shall look at you with pity, John,” said Lorna, trying to laugh it off, yet not knowing what to make of me, “if you talk any more of this nonsense, knowing me as you ought to do.  I shall even begin to think that you, and your friends, are weary of me, and of so long supporting me; and are only seeking cause to send me back to my old misery.  If it be so, I will go.  My life matters little to any one.”  Here the great bright tears arose; but the maiden was too proud to sob.

“Sweetest of all sweet loves,” I cried, for the sign of a tear defeated me; “what possibility could make me ever give up Lorna?”

“Dearest of all dears,” she answered; “if you dearly love me, what possibility could ever make me give you up, dear?”

Upon that there was no more forbearing, but I kissed and clasped her, whether she were Countess, or whether Queen of England; mine she was, at least in heart; and mine she should be wholly.  And she being of the same opinion, nothing was said between us.

“Now, Lorna,” said I, as she hung on my arm, willing to trust me anywhere, “come to your little plant-house, and hear my moving story.”