“With all my heart!” I exclaimed, wondering at this new caprice.

“If we can but slip away unnoticed, they will never find us there,” she said.  And led the way herself, silent.  At length we came to the damp shade where the brook dived under the corner of the wall.  I stooped to gather the lilies of the valley, and she wove them into her hair as of old.  Suddenly she stopped, the bunch poised in her hand.

“Would you miss me if I went away, Richard?” she asked, in a low voice.

“What do you mean, Dolly?” I cried, my voice failing.  “Just that,” said she.

“I would miss you, and sorely, tho’ you give me trouble enough.”

“Soon I shall not be here to trouble you, Richard.  Papa has decided that we sail next week, on the Annapolis, for home.”

“Home!” I gasped.  “England?”

“I am going to make my bow to royalty,” replied she, dropping a deep curtsey.  “Your Majesty, this is Miss Manners, of the province of Maryland!”

“But next week!” I repeated, with a blank face.  “Surely you cannot be ready for the Annapolis!”

“McAndrews has instructions to send our things after,” said she.  “There!  You are the first person I have told.  You should feel honoured, sir.”

I sat down upon the grass by the brook, and for the moment the sap of life seemed to have left me.  Dolly continued to twine the flowers.  Through the trees sifted the voices and the music, sounds of happiness far away.  When I looked up again, she was gazing into the water.

“Are you glad to go?” I asked.

“Of course,” answered the minx, readily.  “I shall see the world, and meet people of consequence.”

“So you are going to England to meet people of consequence!” I cried bitterly.

“How provincial you are, Richard!  What people of consequence have we here?  The Governor and the honourable members of his Council, forsooth!  There is not a title save his Excellency’s in our whole colony, and Virginia is scarce better provided.”

“In spite of my feeling I was fain to laugh at this, knowing well that she had culled it all from little Mr. Marmaduke himself.

“All in good time,” said I.  “We shall have no lack of noted men presently.”

“Mere two-penny heroes,” she retorted.  “I know your great men, such as Mr. Henry and Dr. Franklin and Mr. Adams.”

I began pulling up the grass savagely by the roots.

“I’ll lay a hundred guineas you have no regrets at leaving any of us, my fine miss!” I cried, getting to my feet.  “You would rather be a lady of fashion than have the love of an honest man,—­you who have the hearts of too many as it is.”

Her eyes lighted, but with mirth.  Laughing, she chose a little bunch of the lilies and worked them into my coat.

“Richard, you silly goose!” she said; “I dote upon seeing you in a temper.”

I stood between anger and God knows what other feelings, now starting away, now coming back to her.  But I always came back.