Mary Markham was not less surprised and puzzled than himself, especially as he persisted in asserting the words had been spoken by a female voice. But they soon abandoned that topic, to turn to others of deeper interest to their own two hearts--the cause of Sir Philip Beauchamp's journey to the capital, and the future fate of his fair companion. "In truth, Richard," said Mary, in answer to some of his questions, "I am well nigh as ignorant as yourself of what is about to happen. All I know is, that Sir Philip told me I should probably soon see my father again." "And who is your father, my sweet Mary?" asked Woodville, with a smile. Mary gazed at him for an instant, with a look of touched and gratified affection, and then asked, "And did Richard of Woodville really seek poor Mary Markham's hand, then, without knowing aught of her state and station?--was he willing to take her dowerless, friendless, stationless, almost nameless?" "Good faith, dear Mary," answered Woodville, "I should be right glad to take you any way I could get you; and if dower, or station, or friends, or aught else stand in the way, even down to this pretty robe whose hem I kiss, I pray you, Mary, cast it off! I shall be right glad to have you in your kirtle, if it be but of hodden grey." Mary Markham smiled and blushed; and her bright, merry eyes acquired a softer and more glistening light from the dew of happy emotion that spangled her long eyelashes. "Well, Richard," she said, "I do not love you the less for that. 'Tis a bold speech, perhaps, and one that I should not make; but once having owned what I feel, why should I hide it now?" "Fie on those who would blame you, dearest lady," answered Woodville: "who should feel shame for love? The brightest and the best of human feelings, surely, is no cause of shame; but we may all say, with the great poet-- "'O sunn'is life! O Jov'is daughter dear, Pleasaunce of love! O godely debonaire In gentle hearts aye ready to repaire, O very cause of health and of gladnesse, Iheried be thy might and godenesse.'" "I cannot answer why, Richard," replied Mary, "but I know it is so, that all women feel some shame to own they love; and many affect more shame than they really feel. But I will not do so, dear Richard; for I think it is dishonesty to feign aught. I know I did feel shame, when one day, as we sat beside the river under the green trees, you won me to say more than I ever thought I could; and all that night, when I thought upon it, my cheek burned. But yet, in the moment of trial, I felt bold; and when your uncle asked me, I told him all. Nor do I see why I should conceal it now, even if I could, when you are about to go far, and that may be your only consolation in danger and in difficulty."