"They were running after the ball, all the boys at Mr. Carson's school, and Phil, they think, fell, and there was a rush of boys, and someone must have struck his head with his foot. No one will say they did, but some one must. My young brother was playing, but no one seems to be able to say how it happened. But he never spoke again; he was unconscious from the first." "It must have cast quite a gloom over the neighborhood." "It has been dreadful for everyone; everyone loved him, and to think now--" "Well, his sufferings are over." The girl raised her beautiful eyes with a look of surprise to John Temple's face. "But life is not suffering," she said. "His life was all brightness--but you did not know him?" "Yes, I did, slightly; he was a fine boy, and I was very sorry indeed to hear of his death. I am his cousin, John Temple." "I did not know; I heard the squire's nephew was coming--but of course I did not know--" "And you? Do you live near here?" "Yes, at Woodside Farm; that white house there, yonder in the fields." She pointed as she spoke to a long, low house standing some half a mile distant. As she did so John Temple looked again at her lovely face. Never in all his wanderings, he was telling himself, had he seen one half so fair. The coloring and features were alike perfect. Perhaps his gaze was too steadfast, for she dropped her eyes and suddenly turned away. "I must be going now," she said; "I came to get those roses to make another wreath--good-morning." And she bowed and turned away. Her manner was so simple and dignified that John Temple felt it would be a liberty to follow her, or try to detain her. Therefore he turned his footsteps once more in the direction of the Hall, and on his way thither he encountered Mr. Layton, the vicar of Woodlea, who had read the service over poor young Phillip's grave. The vicar had noticed John Temple among the mourners; he was a connection of the family, and he stopped. "I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. John Temple?" he said. "Yes," answered John, touching his hat. "I am the vicar here; my daughter married your uncle. Ah--this has been a sad affair." "Most sad--can you tell me the name of the young lady you must have just met?" The vicar smiled. "Ah, that is our village beauty," he said; "they call her the Mayflower." CHAPTER III. A SAD FLIRT. John Temple was too much interested on the subject to be content with such crude information. "The Mayflower," he repeated, smiling. "What a pretty name for a pretty girl! But I suppose that is not her real name?" "No, her real name, for I christened her, and so should know, is Margaret Alice Churchill, but she was born in May, and that is how she got her pet name, I suppose." "She has a lovely face." "Yes, yes, she is well-favored, and is a good girl, too, I believe--a very good girl. They say young Henderson, of the Grange, wants to marry her, but this may be just gossip." "And who is he?"