“Now, John,” she cried; for she was so quick that she always had my thoughts beforehand; “why will you be backward, as if you cared not for me?  Do you dream that I am doubting?  My mind has been made up, good John, that you must be my husband, for—­well, I will not say how long, lest you should laugh at my folly.  But I believe it was ever since you came, with your stockings off, and the loaches.  Right early for me to make up my mind; but you know that you made up yours, John; and, of course, I knew it; and that had a great effect on me.  Now, after all this age of loving, shall a trifle sever us?”

I told her that it was no trifle, but a most important thing, to abandon wealth, and honour, and the brilliance of high life, and be despised by every one for such abundant folly.  Moreover, that I should appear a knave for taking advantage of her youth, and boundless generosity, and ruining (as men would say) a noble maid by my selfishness.  And I told her outright, having worked myself up by my own conversation, that she was bound to consult her guardian, and that without his knowledge, I would come no more to see her.  Her flash of pride at these last words made her look like an empress; and I was about to explain myself better, but she put forth her hand and stopped me.

“I think that condition should rather have proceeded from me.  You are mistaken, Master Ridd, in supposing that I would think of receiving you in secret.  It was a different thing in Glen Doone, where all except yourself were thieves, and when I was but a simple child, and oppressed with constant fear.  You are quite right in threatening to visit me thus no more; but I think you might have waited for an invitation, sir.”

“And you are quite right, Lady Lorna, in pointing out my presumption.  It is a fault that must ever be found in any speech of mine to you.”

This I said so humbly, and not with any bitterness—­for I knew that I had gone too far—­and made her so polite a bow, that she forgave me in a moment, and we begged each other’s pardon.

“Now, will you allow me just to explain my own view of this matter, John?” said she, once more my darling.  “It may be a very foolish view, but I shall never change it.  Please not to interrupt me, dear, until you have heard me to the end.  In the first place, it is quite certain that neither you nor I can be happy without the other.  Then what stands between us?  Worldly position, and nothing else.  I have no more education than you have, John Ridd; nay, and not so much.  My birth and ancestry are not one whit more pure than yours, although they may be better known.  Your descent from ancient freeholders, for five-and-twenty generations of good, honest men, although you bear no coat of arms, is better than the lineage of nine proud English noblemen out of every ten I meet with.  In manners, though your mighty strength, and hatred of any meanness, sometimes break out in violence—­of which I must try to cure you, dear—­in manners, if kindness, and gentleness, and modesty are the true things wanted, you are immeasurably above any of our Court-gallants; who indeed have very little.  As for difference of religion, we allow for one another, neither having been brought up in a bitterly pious manner.”