“I will not,” she promised. She was silent for an instant, then said, softly: “How good you are! I will try to be worthy of you. Something tells me, Stuart, that I am not a common village girl. You will know the truth, perhaps, some day, and then you will be proud of me.” “I shall never be prouder of you than I am now!” cried the young man, fervently. “I care not what you are--I love you; you shall be my wife!” Margery raised her lovelit eyes, eloquent in tenderness, to his, and then smiled. “Our picnic is ended,” she said, loosing herself from his hold and picking up her sunbonnet; “the dogs are tired of waiting; we must go.” Stuart watched her pack her basket and tie on the simple headgear, his heart throbbing with pure passionate love. Henceforth, let come what might, this girl belonged to him--she was his very own. “Margery,” he said, as they stood together before starting, “this is the birth of our happiness. Remember, my darling, that you now are my life, my very soul. If clouds should gather, turn to me and I will sweep them away.” Margery rested her hand for one moment on his shoulder. “Stuart,” she said, steadily, “I was a girl an hour ago--I am a woman now. As you love me, dear, so I love you, and ever shall, though a world should stretch between us.” CHAPTER VIII. The sun was growing ruddy in its glory, filling the heavens with a radiant, beautiful light. Margery had parted with Stuart at the Weald gate, and, urged by the wonder and fullness of her happiness, she turned back again to the spot henceforth engraved on her memory with a golden touch. She stood beneath the tree that had reared its branches over her unconscious head through the past hours, and her heart thrilled again and again at the thought of the marvelous treasure that had come to her. Stuart Crosbie loved her--loved her--Margery Daw--a girl without even a name to call her own! She covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shield them from the memory of his passionate glances. What had she ever done to deserve this happiness? Had not her soul murmured often, fretted beneath the cloud of mystery that hung over her? Ah, how wrong she had been! Even while she had murmured, a gift was coming to her, a gift beside which all else faded away and vanished. A sudden impulse moved the girl. She was alone; save for the occasional note of the birds, the faint flutter of the leaves, there was not a sound to break the silence. On the very spot where she had stood when Stuart uttered his earnest, fervent vows she knelt and sent up words of thankfulness. Then she sank upon the ground and, nestling close to the tree, let her fancy wander to the future. She felt at times as if she could not be the Margery of the morning--so far away now--and she almost doubted whether it was not all a dream, till a sudden recollection of her lover’s voice--the memory of his words--returned, and she knew it was a blissful reality.