“Oh, no, no, father, and no indeed!” cried Lora with a horror-stricken look upon her face. “’Tis not your wish, and yet perhaps ’twill be what--and it may be but mine own foolish fancy, but I was thinking, father dear, that if the time comes soon, I would well like to lie just here under this loving tree that seems bending to clip me in its arms; just here, father, on this little slope, with the sea singing lullaby at my feet, and the fair moon making a silver road from earth to heaven, and the whispering leaves of the birch,--to lie down still and dreamless, with this my robe of white samite folded close around my feet, and my hair, so far too heavy now, uncoiled and unbraided, and my two hands clasped upon my breast, and some of mother’s fair white posies beneath them”-- “Lora! Lora! For Christ’s sweet sake, look at me! Look at me, darling, and change that smile for one that I dare to meet! Change it for tears, mine own, tears rather than such a smile; but no, no--see, here is a letter, a letter full of this world’s love, and life, and a man’s honest human longing to make my maid his wife. Wrestling wants to marry you, my bird, my flower, my little Lora! Oh, Lora, Lora darling, understand me, and take that awful smile from your lips! Wrestling would marry you, and I give my full and free consent; yes, freely and gladly, dear. See, here’s the letter, and some pretty poesy, and such honey-sweet words,--take it, darling, and read it; or no,--’tis gruesome here among the graves; come home to mother, and read it sitting in her lap. Come, pussy, come! You love him, don’t you, my lass? That’s all that ails you, isn’t it? Oh, say you love him and will be his wife, and we’ll build you such a fair little home close beside father’s, my poppet; and there’ll be little children by and by to call me granddad, and make a hobby-horse of Gideon-- Nay, nay, she hears not a word! Lora! Lora! Speak to me!” “This letter, father! Did it come from Ras? Did he write it with his own hand?” “Yes, my darling. Come home and read”-- “I am reading it now, and more--and more.” “Nay, dear, you have not opened it.” And Myles, pale and trembling, tried to take the letter from between Lora’s folded hands. But she, drawing away, held it firmly, and gazing fixedly out to sea murmured,-- “He loves me so! Dear lad! He loves me so, and thinks of all it may cost him, and yet--brave Ras! brave and noble heart! She clings to him, and he will not push her aside! Oh, poor woman, how she writhes in her agony, and clings and clings; and now he has carried her into the hovel and laid her down, and one says, ‘’Tis the plague, and yon poor gentleman must die for his charity,’ and he turns away and whispers, ‘Lora!’ Yes, darling, yes! I know now that I love you, dear,--wait--nay, he cannot wait, but goes before, and I--will come--yes, dear heart, I will”--