"A shepherd in a shade his plaining made, Of love, and lovers' wrong, Unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, And thus began his song: 'Restore, restore my heart again, Which thy sweet looks have slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing, Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing! "'Since love and fortune will, I honour still Your dark and shining eye; What conquest will it be, sweet nymph, to thee, If I for sorrow die? Restore, restore my heart again, Which thy sweet looks have slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing, Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!'" But the lifting of the sorrow was only that it might press more heavily. No more letters came; no message of any kind; none of the pretty love-gages he delighted in giving during the first months of their acquaintance. A gloom more wretched than that of death or sickness settled in the old rooms of Seat-Ambar. William and Brune carried its shadow on their broad, rosy faces into the hay-fields and the wheat-fields. It darkened all the summer days, and dulled all the usual mirth-making of the ingathering feasts. William was cross and taciturn. He loved his sister with all his heart, but he did not know how to sympathize with her. Even mother-love, when in great anxiety, sometimes wraps itself in this unreasonable irritability. Brune understood better. He had suffered from a love-change himself; he knew its ache and longing, its black despairs and still more cruel hopes. He was always on the lookout for Aspatria; and one day he heard news which he thought would interest her. Lady Redware was at the Hall. William had heard it a week before, but he had not considered it prudent to name the fact. Brune had a kinder intelligence. "Aspatria," he said, "Redware Hall is open again. I saw Lady Redware in the village." "Brune! Oh, Brune, is he there too?" "No, he isn't. I made sure of that." "Brune, I want to go to Redware. Perhaps his sister may tell me the truth. Go with me. Oh, Brune, go with me! I am dying of suspense and uncertainty." "Ay, they're fit to kill anybody, let alone a little lass like you. It will put William about, and it may make bad bread between us; but I'll go with you, even if we do have a falling out. I'm not flayed for William's rages." The next market-day Brune kept his word. As soon as Squire Anneys had climbed the fell breast and passed over the brow of the hill, Brune was at the door with horses for Aspatria and himself. She was a good rider, and they made the distance, in spite of hills and hollows, in two hours. Lady Redware was troubled at the visit, but she came to the door to welcome Aspatria, and she asked Brune with particular warmth to come into the house with his sister. Brune knew better; he was sure in such a case that it would prove a mere formal call, and that Aspatria would never have the courage to ask the questions she wished to.