Nearly three weeks had now elapsed, and the period limited for her stay at the lodge had passed, when a messenger arrived from her father, to conduct her to one of his castles in the vicinity of London. Who can tell her feelings at receiving this summons?—a summons which would tear her from her lover, perhaps forever. But it opened to her more fully than ever the state of her heart, convinced her of her imprudence in suffering herself to love an unknown stranger, and determined her to learn that very day from her lover’s lips his name and station in life. Ah! pitiable indeed were her feelings as she reflected on her folly. But a flood of tears afforded her partial relief, and calling for Ruth to accompany her she set forth into the forest. What a glorious old place was that royal hunting ground. For miles before you stretched a succession of hills and dales, covered with venerable and gigantic trees, or spreading out into rich meadows; while herds of deer might be seen trotting far off through the vistas of the forest, and here and there a cottage peeping out from beneath the verdant foliage. In some places the dark overshadowing trees completely obscured the light of day, and in others, the sunbeams struggling between the leaves gilded the greensward beneath. Such was the scene through which Margaret took her way, until she reached the open glade, where, of late, she had met her lover. Scarcely had she emerged from the surrounding woods before he sprang to her side, and in a moment she was in his arms. “We meet again, dearest,” said he, kissing the fair cheek that blushed crimson at his caress. “And I fear, for the last time,” said Margaret, “my father has sent for me, and to-morrow I leave this place. Oh! when,” and she looked into his eyes with all a woman’s tenderness, “shall we meet again?” “Going!—and so soon!” muttered her lover, abstractedly, “why dearest, why did you not tell me of this before?” “It was but this morning that I heard of it. Alas! that we should part so soon.” “But how know you, sweet one, that we must part?” said her lover half smilingly. It recalled to Margaret’s mind her determination to learn her lover’s history. “Why,” said she, “are you not a mere,” and her voice faltered, “a mere soldier of fortune, perhaps—,” and again she faltered and looked down, “an outlaw? Can you follow me? Oh! would you could,” and the unhappy maiden burst into tears. “And why not, dear Margaret? Have not good men and true, at times, been driven to the greenwood for a temporary livelihood. Know you not how the good Earl of Huntingdon long kept wassail under the trees of old Sherwood with his ‘merrie men?’” “Oh! then say you are like him—say you are not an outlaw! Did you but know how my heart reproves me for all this—how I weep to think that my father will never forgive me—and how my only consolation is in your love—did you know all this, you would keep me in suspense no longer!”