"I will not be catechised." There was the gleam of a tear of vexation in her eyes and a quiver in her voice, that sent the militant spirit in the breast of Ande headlong in defeat. She turned her face from him in an effort to hide her feelings. An agony of remorse swept o'er his soul. "I have hurt you," he said, timidly. No answer. "What have I done. I am a brute and a coward. I am not worthy to be called your knight," exclaimed Ande, in remorseful self-reproach. No answer. "Look at me, please. Speak to me," pleadingly. "You will not. I am the worst coward living--to hurt the feelings of the best of women," in doleful misery. "You are hateful and unjust." An answer at length from the hidden face that made his countenance blanch and pierced even within, but he answered humbly: "I am. I have been hateful and unjust to you." "No. Hateful and unjust to yourself." The face again came into view and, could he believe it,--yes,--the tear was gone and the fun-light was twinkling in merriment. "How?" in bewildered discomfiture. "When you called yourself a coward and the worst of ones, you were unjust to yourself and hateful to yourself." "I suppose you are right," humbly. "Don't look so doleful; you may be noticed. I would have my knight cheerful and happy." "And you are not angry?" "No," and she shook her elfish curls and smiled. "And you will have no other knight but me?" "You must not be presumptuous," seriously. "Mistress Alice, it is not presumptuous for me to speak to you on a subject that is dear to me," said with great earnestness, his eyes devouring her face. "And specially so here in the hall of my ancestors. Do you see the coat-of-arms o'er the mantelpiece, engraved in the oak?" The girl was relieved by what she thought a change in the conversation. She brightened into new interest. "Yes, and I wondered ever since a child what was the meaning of the horse with his rider surrounded by the waves of the sea. Oh, do tell me, please!" "That is the coat-of-arms of our family. The earliest records speak of them as occupying the Lyonnesse country, which is now under the sea beyond Land's End. Sir Trembath, the head of the family, was overtaken by the flood, that happened about in the eighth century, and just had to gallop and swim his horse to the hills for refuge. He was the only one who escaped the inroads of the ocean. All the lands of his barony, together with others, and a hundred and forty parish churches, are now covered by the deep. My ancestry is as noble as any, and it is not presumption for me to speak to you on a subject that is very important to me. As my ancestry was then, so am I now. Mistress Alice, the last heir of the Trembaths needs a star of hope to guide him." He was speaking rapidly, although only loud enough for her to hear. The wild tempest of feeling was at length breaking forth. "Listen," said the girl, demurely, "Uncle Billy is speaking now of the Lyonesse and Arthur."