“Darling Lorna, Lady Lorna,” I cried, in astonishment, yet unable but to keep her closer to me, and closer; “surely, though I love you so, this is not as it should be.”

“Yes, it is, John.  Yes, it is.  Nothing else should ever be.  Oh, why have you behaved so?”

“I am behaving.”  I replied, “to the very best of my ability.  There is no other man in the world could hold you so, without kissing you.”

“Then why don’t you do it, John?” asked Lorna, looking up at me, with a flash of her old fun.

Now this matter, proverbially, is not for discussion, and repetition.  Enough that we said nothing more than, “Oh, John, how glad I am!” and “Lorna, Lorna Lorna!” for about five minutes.  Then my darling drew back proudly, with blushing cheeks, and tear-bright eyes, she began to cross-examine me.

“Master John Ridd, you shall tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  I have been in Chancery, sir; and can detect a story.  Now why have you never, for more than a twelvemonth, taken the smallest notice of your old friend, Mistress Lorna Doone?” Although she spoke in this lightsome manner, as if it made no difference, I saw that her quick heart was moving, and the flash of her eyes controlled.

“Simply for this cause,” I answered, “that my old friend and true love, took not the smallest heed of me.  Nor knew I where to find her.”

“What!” cried Lorna; and nothing more; being overcome with wondering; and much inclined to fall away, but for my assistance.  I told her, over and over again, that not a single syllable of any message from her, or tidings of her welfare, had reached me, or any one of us, since the letter she left behind; except by soldier’s gossip.

“Oh, you poor dear John!” said Lorna, sighing at thought of my misery:  “how wonderfully good of you, thinking of me as you must have done, not to marry that little plain thing (or perhaps I should say that lovely creature, for I have never seen her), Mistress Ruth—­I forget her name; but something like a towel.”

“Ruth Huckaback is a worthy maid,” I answered with some dignity; “and she alone of all our world, except indeed poor Annie, has kept her confidence in you, and told me not to dread your rank, but trust your heart, Lady Lorna.”

“Then Ruth is my best friend,” she answered, “and is worthy of you, dear John.  And now remember one thing, dear; if God should part us, as may be by nothing short of death, try to marry that little Ruth, when you cease to remember me.  And now for the head-traitor.  I have often suspected it:  but she looks me in the face, and wishes—­fearful things, which I cannot repeat.”

With these words, she moved an implement such as I had not seen before, and which made a ringing noise at a serious distance.  And before I had ceased wondering—­for if such things go on, we might ring the church bells, while sitting in our back-kitchen—­little Gwenny Carfax came, with a grave and sullen face.