“I am going away, Margery,” Reuben replied. “I cannot stay here. The sight of all she loved would kill me; so I am just going to leave it all; and I start for Australia at the end of the week. I have been up to Farmer Bright’s, and Mr. Robert has walked back with me to talk it all over.” “Australia!” repeated Margery, drawing closer to him. “So soon!” “Yes, lass; I must go. I have had an offer through Farmer Bright to go up country to a man who wants a stock-driver. It isn’t money that takes me, Margery. I must quit Hurstley, or I shall go mad. But we must think of you, lass?” “I shall be all right,” Margery said, quietly. “I have many friends; Sir Hubert’s steward will find me another home till Lady Coningham comes back, and----” “Yes; my mother has sent me here with a message to you, Margery,” Robert Bright said, quickly. “She wants you to come to her for a month or so.” “She is very kind.” “Wilt thou go, lass?” asked Reuben, gently. Margery drew a quick breath. “I cannot answer now,” she said; “to-morrow I will tell you, Mr. Robert.” “Oh, there is no hurry,” Robert returned, heartily. “Mother will welcome you gladly whenever you come.” “Wait till to-morrow, and she’ll be with you,” Reuben said, in the young man’s ear, as Margery turned indoors again; then he added, in a louder tone: “I must go up to the Weald for an hour, to see the men. Get thee some rest, lass.” “I will stay here, if Margery will let me,” Robert Bright said, putting one foot on the doorstep, and glancing into the room. Reuben had moved away down the path, and the sight of the girl’s pale, drawn face, and listless, drooping figure, stirred the heart of the young farmer. For weeks past he had grown to watch for this girl. Her rare beauty and daintiness were as something heavenly in his everyday life. “You must not fret, Margery,” he said, as kindly as he could; sympathy, always difficult to him, was almost impossible now. “You are looking very pale and ill.” The girl raised her hands, and pressed them over her hot eyes; then she rose with a faint smile, and drew nearer to the door, leaning back against it with a weary little sigh. “I am very tired,” she said, wistfully, “and the heat tries me.” “Come to my mother, and she will nurse you; you do not know what a clever doctor she is. Come! Let me take you away with me--I will borrow a cart from some one in the village. Do come, Margery!” Margery shook her head. “I cannot go,” she answered, slowly. “Do not think me unkind; I cannot go.” His face fell, and there was silence between them for a few minutes. Her heavily-fringed lids drooped over her eyes, and so he gazed, while the love raging within his heart urged him to take this frail, sad being from sorrow to happiness. Suddenly it grew too much for him, and, putting out his hands, he grasped hers tenderly. “Margery,” he said--“my darling!”