If Elinor had told the whole truth she would have added, "I do not wish to." "Then at least put them aside and deal with me in cold business terms as though we were the strangers thy cousins believe us to be. Wilt thou have me for thy tenant on shares--three quarters of the harvest to go to thee and one quarter to me?" "Tenant of mine thou shalt never be. I could not be so unfair, to let thee give thy life for me and get nothing in return!" "To let me do the thing I have set my heart on and get in return a sight of thee once in the year. That is to make one three-hundred-and sixty-fifth of every year blessed." "My tenant," said Elinor, slowly, "thou canst not be." Neville bent his head. "But--" "Blessed be but--! But what?" "But--perhaps--Cecil's." "Ay, that is better!" said Neville, smiling a little; "that will be best, for then there will be no favor on either side, and as the lad grows older he and I can deal together as man to man." "Oh, it is such a relief to my mind!" sighed Elinor. "And to mine," quoth Neville. "It is not the same thing as being my tenant?" "Not at all--quite different. And thou wilt come with Cecil to see how the land fares from time to time?" "Why, that were but business." "Truly to do aught else were treason to thy son's interest, and by and by when the house is built and the title of Robin Hood's Barn suits the manor no more, thou and he will come to visit me there?" "That could not be--" "No, I feared that was asking too much," Neville said humbly, "but at least thou wilt let me have the boy?" "How good thou art!" "_Good!_--I to thee? Shall I tell thee whose picture dwells in my soul by day and night, Elinor?" There was a curious vibration in Neville's voice, as if memory were pulling out the stops of an organ. "Ay, tell me," said Elinor, tremulously, in a voice scarce above a whisper. "'Tis that of a girl in a robe of green like the one thou wearest this night--ay, and floating sleeves like thine, whereby she caught the name she bears in my heart." A softness stole into Elinor's eyes and the flush of girlhood rose to her cheek. "Ah," Neville went on. "Dost thou remember that day in the Somerset wood, and how I gave thee the name of Lady Greensleeves, and how I sang thee the dear old ballad, thou sitting on the stone wall and I leaning against the great chestnut-tree?" "Nay, 'twas not a chestnut--'twas an oak, for I do recall the acorns that lay about thy feet as I listened with my eyes cast down." "And I stood looking at thy lashes, scarce knowing whether I would have them lift or not, as they lay against the rose of thy cheek." "How long ago it all was!" sighed Elinor. "Yet when thou dost speak and look like that it seems but yesterday. Oh, my dearest--" Neville, carried beyond his prudence, drew nearer and was about to fall upon his knees before her, when he saw the door open to admit Mistress Brent, followed by a servant bearing a steaming bowl of posset.