She does not answer the light rap on the half-open door, nor does her lover wait; he enters, and in a second, kneeling at her feet, his two arms about her, he raises her sweet face and lays his yearning lips on Her Ladyship’s own beautiful mouth. “Ah, Peggy, my adored one,” says he, devouring her pale face with his happy eyes, stroking her cropped head with caressing fingers. “Oh, Percy!” says she, with real roses blooming in her cheeks. [Illustration: Ah, Peggy, my adored one...] “I know a deal,” whispers he, “but one thing I must ask. You’ll tell me at once, will you?” “What is’t?” says she, smiling, as she leaves her two hands in the hold of one of his. “Why did you adventure so much? for what, for whom, whose sake? Wherefore?” The young man’s voice is feverish with anxiety. She hangs her head; raises it proudly; wishes she had him at a distance, and so, leave to swing her train and use her fan indifferent. “My beloved,” cries he, “answer me! ’Tis your own Percy, him that worships the ground you tread upon; who has never had a thought apart from you; to whom every other lady on God’s earth’s but a puppet—that asks—eh, Peg, for whom, who?” coaxes he with eyes, lips, hands, heart-beats. “For your sake, Sir, and none other,” she answers. “’Twas because I knew I’d done wrong and sent you from me careless; I would not give in; but, you up in town, Ken writin’ me as he did—I could abide it no longer—and I went.” “Now the God above us, bless you,” says he, taking her in his arms, and at the same instant pulling from his waistcoat pocket the scrap of a note she’d written him in the eye of the scaffold. “Peg, Peg! I’m not worthy to mate with you, and when I learned of all your hairbreadth ’scapes, your twice saving of my life—when I read this, ’slife! My Lady, what’s a man like me to such as you!” “I’ll tell you,” says she, laying her head on his shoulder, “he’s the man she loves.” “Will you marry me in a fortnight, Peggy?” asks he, rapturous. “Nay!” answers she, laughing. “I’ve another suitor to consider, Sir.” “And who is he?” “Sir Robin McTart! He was over yesterday to ask my hand from Daddy.” “The devil!” “Nay, Sir, not enough courage for that!” “Peggy, sweetlips, will you be mine the Tuesday after Transfiguration?” “Lud! No, Sir Percy! that will I not!” “When will you, then, love?” “Next Christmas.” “Split it,” cries he, imploringly, “make it the first quarter of the October moon?” “Well,” she answers, looking up to where her father and mother stand in the doorway, “an Daddy and my Lady Mother consent, you shall have your way, Sir.” The young man glances up, following Peggy’s eyes, springs to his feet, raises her from the old divan and leads her before them. “My Lord and Your Ladyship,” says he, “will you consent, as Peggy has, to our being made man and wife on October the fifth? and will you give My Lady and my unworthy self your blessing?”