Ella Brune sat on a stool at the feet of Mary Markham, on the day after Richard of Woodville's departure from London, and certainly a more beautiful contrast was seldom seen than between the fair lady and the minstrel girl, as the one told and the other listened to, the tale of the old man's death, and all that had since occurred. The eyes of both were full of tears, which did not run over, indeed, but hung trembling on the eyelid, like drops of summer dew in the cup of a flower; and Mary Markham, with the kind, familiar impulse of sympathy, stretched forth her fair hand twice, and pressed that of her less fortunate companion, as she told the tale of her sorrows, and her sufferings. The poor girl's heart yearned towards her gentle friend, as she remarked her sympathy for all she felt,--her grief at the death of the poor old man, her pleasure at the conduct of Ella's generous protector, her indignation at the persecution she had suffered from a man whom she herself scorned and despised. But one thing is to be remarked. The name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, Ella spoke plainly, and repeated often, during her narrative; but that of Richard of Woodville, from some latent feeling in her own heart, she shrunk from pronouncing. It might be, that the meaning looks and smiles of the people of the inn where she had visited him, made her believe that others would entertain the suspicions or fancies which she imagined that those looks implied. It might be that she doubted her own heart, or that she knew there really were therein sensations which she dreaded to acknowledge to herself, and still more to expose to the eyes of others. Thus she gave him any other designation than his own name. She called him "the noble gentleman who had befriended her," "her protector," "her benefactor,"--everything, in short, but Richard of Woodville. Mary Markham observed this reserve; and, as woman's heart, even in the most simple and single-minded, is always learned in woman's secrets, Mary judged, and judged rightly, that gratitude was growing up in Ella's bosom into love. She could very well understand that it should be so; she thought it natural--so natural, that it could scarce be otherwise; and what she felt within herself would have made her very lenient to passion in others, even had she been more harsh and severe than she was. She took a deep interest in the poor girl and her whole history, and not less in her grateful love than in any other part thereof; so that she was anxious to learn who and what this unnamed benefactor was, in order that she might judge whether there was the least hope or chance of Ella's tenderness meeting due return. "He was a generous and noble-hearted knight, indeed," she said; "more like the ancient chivalry, my poor girl, than the heartless nobility of the present day." "He is not a knight," answered Ella, timidly; "but I am sure he soon will be, for he well deserves his spurs."