The next morning, feeling somewhat more cheerful at what she considered the certain prospect of seeing him again, and to a somewhat better purpose, she called for Suke, in feverishly high spirits, and the two set off together on a spirited race down the hill. One hour--two hours--three hours--and not a sign of her truant lover. Mell burst into an agony of tears. "I am no match for him," she sobbed. "He is heartless and cynical, and imperious and selfish. He does not care in the very least bit for me and I"--springing to her feet, and dashing away her tears--"I do not know, at this moment, Jerome Devonhough, whether I most love or hate you!" This feeling of sullen resentment sustained her through that long, long day. In the cool of the evening her mother sent her on an errand to the little country store, about a mile distant. Coming back she encountered a gay cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen on horseback, conspicuous among them, Jerome. She had no reason to suppose he recognized, or even saw, the quiet figure plodding along on foot, and catching the dust from their horses' hoofs. "This is my life," said Mell, looking after them with yellow eyes, "while others ride, I walk!" The noise of their clattering feet and merry voices had scarcely died away, when there came another sound; faint at first and uncertain, it came nearer and nearer. A solitary horseman dashed up to her side and dismounted. "Jerome! Is it you?" exclaimed Mell, with a glad start, forgetting all the anger she had been nursing against him since yesterday, in the joy of seeing him again. "How could you tear yourself away from that lively crowd?" "One, if she is the right one, is crowd enough for me," declared Jerome, with a laugh; and throwing his bridle reins negligently across his arm, he walked along beside her. "When I saw you, Mellville, I dropped my whip out of pure delight, and as it is a dainty trifle belonging to Clara--Miss Rutland, that is--adorned with a silver stag's head and tender associations, I had, of course, to come back for it. At all events, I could not have closed my eyes this night, without seeing you, making my humble confessions, and imploring your forgiveness for my conduct of yesterday. I behaved abominably. I confess it. I am truly sorry. And, at the risk of falling in your esteem, I am going to tell you something--my temper is a thing vile--villainous, but it does not often get the better of me as it did yesterday. Forgive me, dearest?" "I am not your dearest," Mell informed him, with head erect. "Not? Why, how's that? 'Nay, by Saint Jamy,' but you are! I have one heart, but one, it is all yours; you have one, but one, it is all mine. We are to each other, dearest, _Ita lex scripta_." "The matter is one in which I, myself, shall have a say-so." "You have had a say-so! You have said: 'Jerome, I love you!'" "How can you speak so falsely? It is not true--I did not say so."