“No story can move me much, dear,” she answered rather faintly, for any excitement stayed with her; “since I know your strength of kindness, scarcely any tale can move me, unless it be of yourself, love; or of my poor mother.”

“It is of your poor mother, darling.  Can you bear to hear it?” And yet I wondered why she did not say as much of her father.

“Yes, I can bear anything.  But although I cannot see her, and have long forgotten, I could not bear to hear ill of her.”

“There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except of evil done to her.  Lorna, you are of an ill-starred race.”

“Better that than a wicked race,” she answered with her usual quickness, leaping at conclusion; “tell me I am not a Doone, and I will—­but I cannot love you more.”

“You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at least, I can answer; though I know not what your name is.”

“And my father—­your father—­what I mean is—­”

“Your father and mine never met one another.  Your father was killed by an accident in the Pyrenean mountains, and your mother by the Doones; or at least they caused her death, and carried you away from her.”

All this, coming as in one breath upon the sensitive maiden, was more than she could bear all at once; as any but a fool like me must of course have known.  She lay back on the garden bench, with her black hair shed on the oaken bark, while her colour went and came and only by that, and her quivering breath, could any one say that she lived and thought.  And yet she pressed my hand with hers, that I might tell her all of it.

[Illustration:  504.jpg Tailpiece]

CHAPTER LVI

JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR

[Illustration:  505.jpg Lorna]

No flower that I have ever seen, either in shifting of light and shade, or in the pearly morning, may vie with a fair young woman’s face when tender thought and quick emotion vary, enrich, and beautify it.  Thus my Lorna hearkened softly, almost without word or gesture, yet with sighs and glances telling, and the pressure of my hand, how each word was moving her.

When at last my tale was done, she turned away, and wept bitterly for the sad fate of her parents.  But to my surprise she spoke not even a word of wrath or rancour.  She seemed to take it all as fate.

“Lorna, darling,” I said at length, for men are more impatient in trials of time than women are, “do you not even wish to know what your proper name is?”

“How can it matter to me, John?” she answered, with a depth of grief which made me seem a trifler.  “It can never matter now, when there are none to share it.”

“Poor little soul!” was all I said in a tone of purest pity; and to my surprise she turned upon me, caught me in her arms, and loved me as she had never done before.

“Dearest, I have you,” she cried; “you, and only you, love.  Having you I want no other.  All my life is one with yours.  Oh, John, how can I treat you so?”