"For a time,--yes! But not altogether, George; not always; for the little bungalow behind us is mine now,--ours; a gift last Christmas to me from my father's dear American friend, my friend, Colonel Sol Dorry, with whom, in Wyoming, I spent the happiest of all my girlhood days." "Mary,--Rosemary," I exclaimed, as an unsatisfied little thought kept recurring to me, refusing to be set aside even in the midst of our great happiness,--"there is a little maid 'in the North Countree' in whom I am deeply interested. The last I heard of her, she had been jilted by her lover. Didn't he ever come back to her?" Rosemary laughed. "It is getting near to breakfast-time; so, if George, Earl of Brammerton and Hazelmere, Storekeeper at Golden Crescent, runs over home and listens very attentively while he is burning his porridge and _boiling_ his tea,--he may hear of what happened to that sweet, little maid." And, sure enough, as I stood, with my sleeves rolled up, stirring oatmeal and water that threatened every minute to stick to the bottom of the pot; there came through my open window the sounds of the bewitching voice of Rosemary,--my own, my charming Lady Rosemary:-- A maid there is in the North Countree; A coy little, glad little maid is she. Her cheeks are aglow with a rosy hue, For her knight proved true, as good knights should be. And, day by day, as their vows renew, Her spinning wheel purrs and the threads weave through; It purrs. It purrs. It purrs and the threads weave through. THE END End of Project Gutenberg's My Brave and Gallant Gentleman, by Robert Watson