He stopped when he reached her, and took off his cloth traveling-cap. "Forgive me addressing you, Miss Churchill," he said, smilingly; "but I have lost my way." The Mayflower smiled, too. "You are a long way from the Hall," she said. "I wanted a good walk, and now will you tell me where I am?" "This place is called Fern Dene, and the wood beyond, up the hill there, is called Fern Wood. It is famous for its ferns, and there are some very rare kinds growing about here, and there are also some rare kinds of moths, but I never can bear to catch them." "No, it's better to let them have their lives in peace." "Yes, and they look so beautiful fluttering about. But I admit I steal the ferns. This is part of the squire's property, so you must not tell him." "You would doubtless be arrested as a poacher." "Not quite so bad as that," laughed the Mayflower; "indeed, I think he knows. Dear Phil Temple," and her expression changed, "often came here with me to help me to collect them, for I have a fernery at Woodside of which I am very proud." "I wonder if we could find some now?" asked John. "I know something about ferns, and can tell the rare ones." The Mayflower did not speak; in truth she was considering whether it would be quite proper for her to go fern hunting with a young man of whom she knew so little. Perhaps John Temple saw, or thought he saw, the reason of her hesitation. He smiled; he looked in her bright fair face, and then he condescended to a subterfuge. "I feel quite tired with my walk," he said. "I wonder if you would think me rude or lazy if I were to sit down on the turf?" Still the girl did not answer, but she smiled. "May I?" asked John, emboldened by the smile. "The turf is not mine, but the squire's," answered the Mayflower, still smiling; upon which John flung himself on the mossy grass not far from her feet. "I call this luxury," he said, stretching out his long limbs. "Fern Dene--so this is Fern Dene? Do you often come here, Miss Churchill?" "Yes, very often; it's a nice walk from home." "And you read here. May I ask what you were reading when I interrupted you?" "A novel, of course," answered the Mayflower, with a blush. "Yes, of course; that is only natural." The Mayflower looked quickly down at the good-looking brown face raised to hers, as John Temple said this, for something in his tone made her think he was amusing himself at her expense. "Yes, it is only natural," she answered, with a spirit; "I like to read of lives that I suppose are very often drawn from life." "With all its tragedies, its comedies, its subterfuges, and its lies--it's always the same old story." "But there are some lives in which there are no tragedies--nor even comedies?" "About these, if there be such, there are no stories to tell."