But to the squire's daughter how useful he became. Was there any work that would soil her dainty fingers? Ande must perform it. Was there any task that seemed too hard for her? Ande was in requisition. Once she had hurt her finger over a rose bush. It was Ande who heard the faint exclamation of pain and who flew instantly to her side, and how tenderly and with what a vague thrill, as if he himself were hurt, did he proceed to extract the jagged thorn. It was his own handkerchief that bound up the wound, and with what gallantry he had requested her to keep it as a remembrance of him. He knew not that that piece of linen was stored up among Mistress Alice's special treasures. She knew that her womanly intuition at the gate of the Primrose Cottage was true. This youth did love her, and it was not displeasing to her; but she knew something else. She was gradually knowing her own feelings, that she cherished a deeper sentiment than friendship for this brave youth who had saved her life. The thought of this sentiment would send the crimson waves o'er her countenance when she dwelt upon it, for a moment, in her own pretty rooms. She would not have him suspect such a thing--not for the world. She knew her father's hatred for treason, his strong loyal sentiments. No, she dare not think of it too often. Her father had revealed his plans for her future--the marriage with young Richard Lanyan. But she had neither acquiesced nor refused. Master Lanyan was a welcome visitor to the Manor, and she treated him well as her father's guest. Lanyan and Ande had met once in her presence at the Manor. There was a gleam of hatred in each eye. This was the son of the hated family that had deprived the Trembaths of their rightful possessions, and now Ande could perceive the marked favour with which he was greeted by the old squire, and had a dim consciousness of the squire's hopes. It was as much as Mistress Alice could do to so conduct herself as to offend neither. Lanyan, after the first quick, sharp glance at Trembath, paid little heed to him. Calmly and tranquilly he ignored him and devoted his attention to Mistress Alice, taking the conversation into such scholarly, Etonian themes that Ande, finding himself out of his depths, was constrained to silence and soon moved homeward with bitter feelings within him. He had not come near the Manor for a week after that, and somehow or other Mistress Alice had a foreboding that something was wrong. Did it pain her? She would not acknowledge that it did, even to herself. But how graciously she treated him when he did return. So had affairs been before the Christmastide, and on account of it there was not that strangeness between them that existed at the first. With the remark above mentioned, the Knight, St. George, seated himself near Alice. She smiled pleasantly and responded: