Say that happier mortal woos thee, Say that nobler knight pursues thee, While this blighted being teareth All the festive robes it weareth, While this dead heart splits to lose thee-- Ah, could I so misuse thee? Though this bosom, rent by thunder, Crash its last hope anchor'd in thee; Liefer would I groan thereunder, Than by falsehood win thee!" And now they met in a gentle place, roofed with leaves, and floored with moss, and decorated with bluebells. The chill of the earth was gone by and forgotten, and the power of the sky come back again; stately tree, and graceful bush, and brown depths of tangled prickliness--everything having green life in it--was spreading its green, and proud of it. Under this roof, and in these halls of bright young verdure, the youth and the maid came face to face befittingly. Grace, as bright as a rose, and flushing with true tint of wild rose, drew back and bowed, and then, perceiving serious hurt of Christopher, kindly offered a warm white hand--a delicious touch for any one. Kit laid hold of this and kept it, though with constant fear of doing more than was established, and, trying to look firm and overpowering, led the fair young woman to a trunk of fallen oak. Here they both sat down; and Grace was not so far as she could wish from yielding to a little kind of trembling which arose in her. She glanced at Kit sideways whenever she felt that he could not be looking at her; and she kept her wise eyes mainly downward whenever they seemed to be wanted--not that she could not look up and speak, only that she would rather wait until there was no other help for it; and as for that, she felt no fear, being sure that he was afraid of her. Kit, on the other hand, was full of fear, and did all he could in the craftiest manner to make his love look up at him. He could not tell how she might take his tale; but he knew by instinct that his eyes would help him where his tongue might fail. At last he said-- "Now, will you promise faithfully not to be angry with me?" "Oh yes, oh yes--to be sure," said Grace; "why should I be angry?" "Because I can't help it--I give you my honour. I have tried very hard, but I cannot help it." "Then who could be angry with you, unless it was something very wicked?" "It is not very wicked, it is very good--too good for me, a great deal, I am afraid." "There cannot be many things too good for you; you are simple, and brave, and gentle." "But this is too good for me, ever so much, because it is your own dear self." Grace was afraid that this was coming; and now she lifted her soft blue eyes and looked at him quite tenderly, and yet so directly and clearly that he knew in a moment what she had for him--pity, and trust, and liking; but of heart's love not one atom.