"Why don't you tell me," cries Billy, angrily, "instead of standing there with your mouth open? Did he hear what we said?" "Yes, every word." "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" with a dismal groan. "And who is to tell them at home, I would like to know?" "Tell them what?" "Why, about,--- Surely you don't mean to tell me he is going to marry you after all that?" exclaims Billy, his eyes enlarged to twice their usual size. "Yes, of course he is," I reply, with much dignity and indignation combined. "When a man loves a woman he does not give her up for a trifle." "A trifle! Well, I never," murmurs Billy floored for once in his life. CHAPTER XIV We are in the orchard of Summerleas alone, Mr. Carrington and I, with the warm but fitful April sun pouring heavily down upon us. All around is one great pink and white sheet of blossoms; the very path beneath our feet seems covered with tinted snow. It is one of those pet days that, coming too soon, make us discontented to think to-morrow may again be damp and chill--a day that brings with it an early foretaste of what will be, and is still and heavy as in the heart of summer. "It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, soberly, "the trees are showing such a fair promise." And my lover laughs, and tells me I am a wonderful child; that he has not yet half dived into the deep stores of private knowledge I possess. He supposes when I come to Strangemore he may dismiss his steward, as probably I will be competent to manage everything there--the master included. Whereupon I answer, saucely, I need not go to Strangemore for _that_, as I fancy I have him pretty well under control even as it is. At this he pinches my ear and prophesies the time will yet come when it will be his turn to menace _me_. Our orchard has not been altogether sacrificed to the inner man: here and there one comes upon straggling slopes of greenest grass and irregular beds of old-fashioned and time-honored flowers--such flowers as went to deck Ophelia's grave, or grew to grace the bank whereon Titania slept. High up in the western wall a small green gate gives entrance to another garden--a quaint spot, picturesquely wild, that we children chose to name Queen Elizabeth's Retreat. Long lines of elms grow here, through which some paths are cut--paths innocent of gravel and green as the grass that grows on either side. Here, too, are beds of flowers and rustic benches. "Come, show me anything as pretty as this in all Strangemore," I say, with triumph, as we seat ourselves on an ancient oaken contrivance that threatens at any moment to bring the unwary to the ground. "I wonder if you will ever think anything at Strangemore as worthy of admiration as what you have here?" says Marmaduke, passing his arm lightly round my waist. "Perhaps. But I know every nook and cranny of this old place so well and love it so dearly! I can remember no other home. We came here, you know, when I was very young and Billy only a baby.