"And you will console yourself by telling all your friends what a flirt I am, and how ill I treated you." Apparently he does not think this suggestion worthy of refutation; at least he does not refute it. "Or, if you don't, your mother will." "Not she" (indignantly). "Or, if she does not, your sisters will." "Not they" (less indignantly). "And if--if--after a long while--a very long while--I succeed in liking you a little--mind, I don't say that I shall; on the contrary, I think it far more probable that I shall not--but if I do, you won't expect me to _marry_ you?" He smiles, despite himself. "I can hardly promise that." "I mean not for many years, till Jack is married, and I am quite, _quite_ old--five-and-twenty or so?" "It shall be as you wish." "And if, as is most likely, I continue not to care about you, and am obliged to tell you so, you will not think the worse of me." "No." "You are certain?" "Certain. Whatever you do, I shall love you to-day, and to-morrow, and always," says the young fellow, very solemnly; and his eyes go away past her, through the window, and up to the blue sky overhead, as if calling on the great pale vault to be witness between him and her. As for her, her prosaic soul has wandered back to the mutton; she takes the opportunity of his eyes being averted to steal a glance at the clock. Apparently, however, he has eyes in the back of his head, for he says hastily, with rather a pained smile: "You are longing for me to go." "No--o." "I ought not to have come at this time of night. I ought to have waited till to-morrow, I know." "It is rather late." "But to-morrow seemed such a long time off, that I thought I must know the worst or the best before the sun came up again. I don't quite know which it is now; which is it, Esther?" "It's neither the one nor the other; it's the second best," she answers, all smiles again at seeing some prospect of her admirer's departure, and forgetting, with youthful heedlessness, the price at which that departure has been bought. "It is that I really am very much obliged, though, all the same I wish you would think better of it, and that I'll try; I will, really; don't look as if you did not believe me." So with this half-loaf he goes, passes away through the little wooden porch, that is so low it looks as if it were going to knock his tall head, past the stables, and through the oak woods, home. CHAPTER III. "It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word--"