As they sat there the wind rose and stirred the branches of the alder-trees. In some way the great wavy masses of dark hair became unfastened, and fell like a thick soft veil over Leone's shoulders. Lord Chandos touched it caressingly with his hand. "What beautiful hair, Leone--how thick and soft; how beautiful those wavy lines are--what makes them?" "A turn of Dame Nature's fingers," she replied, laughingly. "I should like to see diamonds shining in these coils of hair," he said. "Leone, one of the first things we must do to-morrow when we reach London, is to buy a very handsome traveling-dress. I have written to-day to my father to ask him to meet us at Dunmore House." She repeated the words. "Where is Dunmore House?" she asked. "I forgot," he said, "that all places so familiar to me are strange to you. One of my father's titles is Baron Dunmore, and his London residence is called Dunmore House. We shall meet him there to-morrow, and then you will be my wife." For the first time she realized what an immense difference there was in their positions. She glanced at him in sudden fear. "Lance," she said, "shall I seem very much out of place in your home, and among your friends?" "My darling, you would grace any home," he replied; "mine has had no fairer mistress in all the generations it has stood." "I am half frightened," she said, gently. "You need not be, sweet. Before this time next year all London will know and admire the beautiful Lady Chandos." "It seems a long leap to take in life," she said, "from being Farmer Noel's niece to bear the name of Lady Chandos." "You will grace the name, Leone," he replied. "I shall be the proudest man in England--I shall have the most beautiful wife in England. This is our last separation, our last parting; after this, we need never part." He stooped down and caught some of the running water in his hand. "A libation," he said, as he poured it back again. "I feel as though I were losing a friend when I leave the mill-stream." Loving and loved, no thought came to them there of how they should see the mill-stream again. "Leone, Lady Chandos." More than once that evening she said those words to herself. It was after eight when she came in, and the farmer had long finished his supper; he sat thinking over his pipe. "You are late, my lady lass," he said; "sit down and talk to me before I go to rest." Obediently enough, she sat down while he told her the history of his visits to the different markets. She heard, but did not take in the sense of one single word he uttered. She was saying to herself over and over again, that by this time to-morrow she should be Lady Chandos. Her happiness would have been complete if she could have told her uncle. He had been so kind to her. They were opposite as light and darkness, they had not one idea in common, yet he had been good to her and she loved him. She longed to tell him of her coming happiness and grandeur, but she did not dare to break her word.