Craven Black looked over his shoulder. The discreet groom had fallen behind out of earshot. Now was the time to make his declaration of love. Such an opportunity might not again occur. “The truth is, Miss Wynde,” he exclaimed, “I came out to meet you. I want to have a quiet talk with you, if you will hear me.” Neva bowed her head gravely, and her reins fell loosely in her gauntleted hand. They were out upon the wide common now, the Dingle farm behind them. The Dingle wood ahead. “You may guess the nature of the communication I have to make to you, Miss Wynde,” said her elderly lover, with an appearance of agitation, a portion of which was genuine. “That which I have to say would be more fittingly said in some other position perhaps. I should prefer to say it on my knees to you, as the knights made love in olden times.” “Oh!” said Neva. “Hadn’t we better move on faster, Mr. Black?” “Coquettish like all of your sex!” said Craven Black, drawing nearer to her. “You understand my meaning, Neva? You know that I love you--I who never loved before--” “Surely,” cried Neva, with an arch sparkle in her red-brown eyes, “you did not perjure yourself when you married the mother of your son?” Craven Black bit his lips fiercely, but said smilingly: “That marriage was one of convenience. No love entered into it, on my side, at least. I never loved till I met you, fair Neva. You have younger suitors, but not one among them all who will be to you what I would be--your slave, your minister, your subject.” “And I should want my husband to be my king,” murmured Neva softly. “And I would be his queen.” “That arrangement would suit me perfectly,” declared Craven Black, feeling a little awkward at his love-making, not altogether sure Neva was not secretly laughing at him, yet eagerly catching at the assistance her words afforded him. “I would be your king, Miss Neva--” He paused in anger, as the girl’s light laugh made music in his ears that he by no means appreciated. His anger deepened, as Neva looked at him with a bright sauciness, a piquant witchery of eyes and mouth. “You are very kind,” the girl laughed, “but I do not think--pardon me, Mr. Black--that you are of the stuff of which kings of the kind I meant are made!” Craven Black’s fair face flushed. He tugged at his light beard with nervous fingers. An angry light glowered in his light eyes.