"Peregrine, God has bestowed on her a mind capable of great things--a wonderful voice. Place her in my charge for two years--I am solitary and very rich--she shall see the world and its wonders; I will have her educated, bestow on her all the refinements that great wealth can command. Nature has given her a glorious voice, Art shall make her a great singer. Forego your present happiness for her future good and your gipsy maid shall become a great lady and a peerless woman. Do this, Peregrine, and here, truly, shall be love indeed." Now at this I was silent a long while, staring down blindly at the hurrying waters of the brook; glancing up at last, I found him regarding me with his keen, bright eyes and was struck anew by the strength of his personality, his resolute face with its indomitable mouth and chin, his serene air of dignity and assured power. "She would be safe with me, Peregrine," said he gently, "secure from every evil--and from every chance of molestation." "I know that, sir." "She would be cherished and loved as sacredly as--my own daughter--might have been." "I am sure of it, sir--and yet--" "Well, Peregrine?" "Two years, sir," I faltered. "It--it is an age--" "You are both children, Peregrine, but in two years, as I understand, you will be of age, a man, master of your fortune--and she a woman, clever, accomplished and perhaps famous." "And may have forgotten me!" "Do you think so, Peregrine?" "No!" said I. "No!" "Nor do I, boy. Such as she, being deep and reverent of soul, do not love lightly, and never forget. On the contrary, with her growing knowledge and experience, surely her love for you will grow also; it must do. If she loves you to-day, child of nature as she is, how much greater will be her capacity for love as an educated woman, knowing that it is to your unselfishness, first and foremost, that she owes so very much?" After this was silence again wherein I watched my companion disjoint his fishing rod. "Sir," said I at last, "yours is a very noble and generous offer--" "Tush!" he exclaimed a little sharply. "I am a solitary old man who yearns for a daughter." "Sir, in less than a fortnight is--the day--our wedding day--" "Then," said his lordship, rising, "God's blessing on that day, Peregrine, and on each of you." "You ask of me a very great thing, sir!" I groaned. "Indeed, yes, Peregrine, so very great that only the greatest love could possibly grant it." Long after the Earl had limped away, I sat crouched beside the stream, my head bowed between clasping hands, blind and deaf and unconscious of all else but the tempest that raged within me, a wild confusion of doubt and fearful speculation with a passionate rebellion against circumstance, and a growing despair. Gradually these chaotic thoughts took form, marshalling themselves against each other, so that it seemed as two voices argued bitterly within me, thus: THE FIRST VOICE. To give up Diana for two long, weary years--