"It would be love, comfort, safety, goodness. Besides, this young Moray is one of our coming men. He has native power. I am much mistaken if he does not make a name, fame, place, fortune." "Do you suppose he will one day go to London and be great?" "Yes, I do." "I would like that. A poet's lovely home, where learned people, and musical wonders, and famous actors, and artists _like you_, Mr. Leslie, come; and we had flowers, and pictures, and song, and gayety." "It is pleasant, well come by. You might have it all, as Mr. Moray's wife, if at first you waited patiently." Earle took new value in this ambitious girl's eyes. Meanwhile, warned by the experience with Leslie, which might have turned out so differently, had Leslie played lover, and offered London-life to Doris, Earle resolved to press his suit, and urge early marriage. He must have some way of holding fast the fair coquette. To him the marriage tie was invulnerable. Once his wife, he fancied she would be ever true. Yes, once betrothed, he believed that she would be true as steel. So one fine September morning, when Leslie's picture was nearly finished, Earle came up to the farm, resolved to be silent no longer. He met Mattie first. He took her hand. "Mattie, dear sister-friend, to-day I mean to ask Doris to be my wife. Wish me success." Mattie's heart died within her, but the true eyes did not quail, as she said: "I hope she will consent, for I know you love her. Heaven send you all good gifts." "If she does not take me, my life will be spoiled!" cried Earle, passionately. "Hush," said Mattie. "No man has a right to say such a word. No one should ever throw away all good that Heaven has given him, because of one good withheld." "Does she love me? Tell me!" "I do not know. There is no way but to ask her." They heard a gay voice singing through the garden. In came Doris, her arms laden with lavender flowers cut for drying. She came, and filled the room with light. "You here, Earle!" cried Doris. "Come up to the coppice nutting with me; the hazel bushes are full." She held out her hand, frank and natural as a child, and away they went together. Doris was fantastic as a butterfly that day. She danced on before Earle. She lingered till he overtook her, and before he could say two words, was off again. Then she sang gay snatches of song. She noted his anxious, grave face, and setting her saucy little head on one side, trilled forth: "Prithee, why so pale, fond lover, Prithee, why so pale? For if looking well won't move her, Looking ill must fail." Finally, at a mossy seat under an oak tree, he made a dash, caught her, drew her to his side, and cried: "Doris, be quiet and hear me; you _shall_ hear me; I have something to tell you--something important." "Bless us!" cried Doris, in pretended terror. "Is it going to rain? Are you going to tell me something dreadful about the weather, and I have a set of new ribbons on!"