fonder of you than you think; but you know brave stoical Aunt Becky can’t say all that—­it would not be in character, you know.’  And the old lady knew how good she was to the poor, and she liked her spirit, and candour, and honour—­it was so uncommon, and somehow angelic, she thought.  ’Little Lily’s so true!’ she used to say; and perhaps there was there a noble chord of sympathy between the young girl, who had no taste for battle, and the daring Aunt Becky.

I think Devereux liked her for liking Lily—­he thought it was for her own sake.  Of course, he was often unexpectedly set upon and tomahawked by the impetuous lady; but the gay captain put on his scalp again, and gathered his limbs together, and got up in high good humour, and shook himself and smiled, after his dismemberment, like one of the old soldiers of the Walhalla—­and they were never the worse friends.

So, turning his back upon the fiddles and tambourine, Gipsy Devereux sauntered down to the river-bank, and to the osiers, where the ladies are looking down the river, and a blue bell, not half so blue as her own deep eyes, in Lilias’s fingers; and the sound of their gay talk came mixed with the twitter and clear evening songs of the small birds.  By those same osiers, that see so many things, and tell no tales, there will yet be a parting.  But its own sorrow suffices to the day.  And now it is a summer sunset, and all around dappled gold and azure, and sweet, dreamy sounds; and Lilias turns her pretty head, and sees him;—­and oh! was it fancy, or did he see just a little flushing of the colour on her cheek—­and her lashes seemed to drop a little, and out came her frank little hand.  And Devereux leaned on the paling there, and chatted his best sense and nonsense, I dare say; and they laughed and talked about all sorts of things; and he sang for them a queer little snatch of a ballad, of an enamoured captain, the course of whose true love ran not smooth;—­

  The river ran between them,
    And she looked upon the stream,
  And the soldier looked upon her
    As a dreamer on a dream. 
  ‘Believe me—­oh! believe,’
    He sighed, ’you peerless maid;
      My honour is pure,
      And my true love sure,
  Like the white plume in my hat,
    And my shining blade.’

  The river ran between them,
    And she smiled upon the stream,
  Like one that smiles at folly—­
    A dreamer on a dream. 
  ’I do not trust your promise,
    I will not be betrayed;
      For your faith is light,
      And your cold wit bright,
  Like the white plume in your hat,
    And your shining blade.’

  The river ran between them,
    And he rode beside the stream,
  And he turned away and parted,
    As a dreamer from his dream. 
  And his comrade brought his message,
    From the field where he was laid—­
      Just his name to repeat,
      And to lay at her feet
  The white plume from his hat
    And his shining blade.[1]