“O Richard! that I were one of the women who wait on you!  I should ask nothing more.  How happy she must be!”

“My darling angel-love.  You shall be happy; but all shall wait on you, and I foremost, Lucy.”

“Dearest! may I hope for a letter?”

“By eleven to-morrow.  And I?”

“Oh! you will have mine, Richard.”

“Tom shall wait far it.  A long one, mind!  Did you like my last song?”

She pats her hand quietly against her bosom, and he knows where it rests.  O love!  O heaven!

They are aroused by the harsh grating of the bow of the boat against the shingle.  He jumps out, and lifts her ashore.

“See!” she says, as the blush of his embrace subsides—­“See!” and prettily she mimics awe and feels it a little, “the cypress does point towards us.  O Richard! it does!”

And he, looking at her rather than at the cypress, delighting in her arch grave ways—­

“Why, there’s hardly any shadow at all, Lucy.  She mustn’t dream, my darling! or dream only of me.”

“Dearest! but I do.”

“To-morrow, Lucy!  The letter in the morning, and you at night.  O happy to-morrow!”

“You will be sure to be there, Richard?”

“If I am not dead, Lucy.”

“O Richard! pray, pray do not speak of that.  I shall not survive you.”

“Let us pray, Lucy, to die together, when we are to die.  Death or life, with you!  Who is it yonder?  I see some one—­is it Tom?  It’s Adrian!”

“Is it Mr. Harley?” The fair girl shivered.

“How dares he come here!” cried Richard.

The figure of Adrian, instead of advancing, discreetly circled the lake.  They were stealing away when he called.  His call was repeated.  Lucy entreated Richard to go to him; but the young man preferred to summon his attendant, Tom, from within hail, and send him to know what was wanted.

“Will he have seen me?  Will he have known me?” whispered Lucy, tremulously.

“And if he does, love?” said Richard.

“Oh! if he does, dearest—­I don’t know, but I feel such a presentiment.  You have not spoken of him to-night, Richard.  Is he good?”

“Good?” Richard clutched her hand for the innocent maiden phrase.  “He’s very fond of eating; that’s all I know of Adrian.”

Her hand was at his lips when Tom returned.

“Well, Tom?”

“Mr. Adrian wishes particular to speak to you, sir,” said Tom.

“Do go to him, dearest!  Do go!” Lucy begs him.

“Oh, how I hate Adrian!” The young man grinds his teeth.

“Do go!” Lucy urges him.  “Tom—­good Tom—­will see me home.  To-morrow, dear love!  To-morrow!”

“You wish to part from me?”

“Oh, unkind! but you must not come with me now.  It may be news of importance, dearest.  Think, Richard!”

“Tom! go back!”

At the imperious command the well-drilled Tom strides off a dozen paces, and sees nothing.  Then the precious charge is confided to him.  A heart is cut in twain.