"Yes, honey, sure I will. Didn' he put a s'prise on to us all? Whip you horses! how we was all took aback! Lor'! no wonder you fainted dead away. But look yere, chile. Dat was de fus time as yer ebber fainted in yer life, an' let it be de las'. Doan gib yerse'f a habit ob it. I know it tuk yer onawares dis time, bein' de fus time, an' you knowin' nuffin 'bout it. But you be on de watch out nudder time, an' if yer feel it a-comin' on, you 'sist it wid all yer might. Doan yer faint no mo'. Ef yer gibs yerse'f de habit, yer'll jes be like one ob dese yere po', mis'able, faintyfied creetures as can't stand nuffin. Dey's allus faintn'. It's a habit dey gibs deirselves." So talking, Luce went into the house and up the stairs to give her message. In a few moments Le came bounding down the steps, three or four at a bound, and out of the door with a shout of joy, to join his sweetheart, little thinking of what he was to meet. "Luce tells me that you are all right now!" he exclaimed, suddenly clasping her in his arms and pressing her to his bosom, while he covered her face with kisses. "Little mistress of Greenbushes! Little lady of the manor! Have they done everything to please you over there? If they have not--if any man has failed to please my little lady--that man must march. How soon will our wedding be? Before Christmas? Let it be before Christmas. Let us keep our Christmas at Greenbushes, and have uncle and aunt and all the family there to keep it with us. Won't that be jolly? For you and me to entertain our friends at our own home! I was thinking of all this, and a lot more, all the homeward voyage. Odalite, why don't you answer me? Why, Odalite! Odalite! What is the matter?" he anxiously inquired, seeing at length how pale and cold and silent she was--how utterly irresponsive to his enthusiasm. She struggled out of his embrace, and stood leaning for support against the railings of the porch. He followed her in surprise and alarm. "Odalite! what is the matter, dear? Are you--are you going to be ill?" "No!" she answered, in a hollow, far-off sounding voice. "No! But come with me--somewhere--where I can--breathe! Come down to the shore, Le. I have something to tell you." He stepped back into the hall, hastily drew on his overcoat, seized his hat and gloves, and rejoined her, still in some anxiety, but without the least suspicion of the blow that was about to fall upon him. He drew her arm within his own, and holding and fondling her hand, led her down the steps, across the lawn to the east gate, and down the wooded hill to the shore. "No; I do not wish to walk further. We will rest here," she said, as soon as they had reached the sands. And she sank wearily upon the rude wooden bench that stood on the beach just above the water mark. He sat down beside her, took her hand, looked into her pale face, and tenderly questioned: