"You ain't a little girl any longer, Alice Wilde, and I guess yer father 'll find it out. He may be mad for a spell; but he'll get over it; and when he comes to think of the chances of his dyin' and leavin' yer alone, he'll give his consent. Come, Alice, say yes, do, now?" The intense eagerness of his manner made her tremble, from sympathy, but she looked into his blazing eyes firmly, as she replied, "Never! so long as I live, never! And you must not speak of it again, unless you want to be discharged from--" "Don't you threaten me, Miss Alice. I ain't the stuff to be threatened. If I'd have said what I've said this day, three weeks ago, you wouldn't have been so mighty cool. Not that I think I'm good enough for ye--there ain't the man livin' that's that; but I'm as good as some as thinks themselves better--and I won't be bluffed off by any broadcloth coat. I've loved you ever since you were a little girl, and fell in the mill-pond onct, and I fished ye out. I've loved ye more years than he's seen ye weeks, and I won't be bluffed off. Jes' so sure as I live, that man shall never marry you, Alice Wilde." "He never thought of it; and it hurts me, Ben, to have you speak of it. Let me go now, this instant." She pulled her hand out of his, and hurried away, forgetful of the bird he had given her. Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after her; but when, a few moments later, as he made his way back toward the mill, he passed Philip Moore, who gave him a pleasant, careless nod, _hate_--the dangerous hate of envy, jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthy brow. Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her homeward way. She had never thought of marriage except as a Paradise in some far, Arcadian land of dreams which she had fashioned from books and the instincts of her young heart; and now to have the idea thrust upon her by this rude, determined fellow, who doubtless considered himself her equal, shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's clamor. And if this young man thought himself a fit husband for her, perhaps others thought the same--perhaps her father would wish her to accept him, some time in the far future--perhaps Philip--ah, Philip! how almost glorified he looked to her vision as at that moment he came out of the forest-shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and the wind tossing his brown hair. "Here is the little humming-bird, at last! was it kind of her to fly away by herself on this last afternoon of my stay?" How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while _she_ was so sad! she felt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply as gayly, but her lip trembled. "What's the matter with the little Wilde-rose?" he asked, kindly looking down into the suffused eyes. "I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father is going away, too, you know, and I shall have no one but good old Pallas."