‘Take care!’ said Mr. Jordan gloomily; ‘take care! There are spirits where the wise see shadows; the eye of the fool sees farther than the eye of the sage. My dear Eve, beware of the Raven Rock.’ Eve began to warble the air of the serenade in ‘Don Giovanni’ which she had heard the boy Watt sing. Then she threw her arms round her father’s neck. ‘Do not look so miserable, papa. I am the happiest little being in the world, and I will kiss your cheeks till they dimple with laughter.’ But instead of doing so, she dashed away to pick flowers, for she thought, seeing herself in the glass opposite, that a bunch of forget-me-not in her bosom was what lacked to perfect her appearance in the blue-sprigged muslin. She knew where wild forget-me-nots grew. The Abbot’s Well sent its little silver rill through rich grass towards the wood, where it spilled down the steep descent to the Tamar. She knew that forget-me-not grew at the border of the wood, just where the stream left the meadow and the glare of the sun for its pleasant shadow. As she approached the spot she saw the imp-like boy leap from behind a tree. He held up his finger, put it to his lips, then beckoned her to follow him. This she would not do. She halted in the meadow, stooped, and, pretending not to see him, picked some of the blue flowers she desired. He came stealthily towards her, and pointed to a stone a few steps further, which was hidden from the house by the slope of the hill. ‘I will tell you nothing unless you come,’ he said. She hesitated a moment, looked round, and advanced to the place indicated. ‘I will go no farther with you,’ said she, putting her hand on the rock. ‘I am afraid of you.’ ‘It matters not,’ answered the boy; ‘I can say what I want here.’ ‘What is it? Be quick, I must go home.’ ‘Oh, you little puss! Oh, you came out full of business! I can tell you, you came for nothing but the chance of hearing what I forgot to tell you yesterday. I must give the message I was commissioned to bear before I can leave.’ ‘Who from?’ ‘Can you ask? From Martin.’ ‘But who is Martin?’ ‘Sometimes he is one thing, then another; he is Don Giovanni. Then he is a king. There—he is an actor. Will that content you?’ ‘What is his surname?’ ‘O Eve! daughter of Eve!’ jeered the boy, ‘all inquisitiveness! What does that matter? An actor takes what name suits him.’ ‘What is his message? I must run home.’ ‘He stole something from you—wicked Martin.’ ‘Yes; a ring.’ ‘And you—you stole his heart away. Poor Martin _has_ had no peace of mind since he saw you. His conscience has stung him like a viper. So he has sent me back to you with the ring.’ ‘Where is it?’ ‘Shut your blue eyes, they dazzle me, and put out your finger.’ ‘Give me the ring, please, and let me go.’