"The evening is growing damp, Sir Mark," said Mace coldly. "Why are you so distant?" he whispered, trying to take her hand. "Nay, nay, this is too bad, you must have seen, you must know, that I love you." "I have seen, sir, that it has pleased you to pass compliments, as seems to be a favourite habit of yours, and you, sir, must have seen that they caused me pain." "Pain? When I'd give my right hand, my very life, to save you from a single pang! Mace, you know why I have lingered here, even to getting in disgrace with my Royal master, that I might be near you; and now for reward you grow cold as if we had never met before." "Sir Mark, I must return home." "Yes, directly, sweet; but, Mace, listen to me. You cannot, you will not, be so cold as this?" "Sir Mark," replied the girl, "does my father know that you meant to speak to me thus?" "Pest on her particular ways," he muttered. Then aloud, "No; but he shall know, if you wish it, sweet." "If I wish it, Sir Mark! I do wish it; and tell him at the same time what I tell you now, that I say I cannot listen to your words." He was so taken aback by her firmness that she swung open the gate and passed hastily along the road leading to the house, looking excited, tearful, and greatly agitated--a state of agitation increased as she encountered Gil half-way, and knew that he must see her excited manner. "Mace," he said, sternly, "I want a few words with you." "Not now; not now," she said. "Yes, now," he cried, angrily. "I cannot bear this coldness longer. You must, you shall, listen to me." "No, no," she cried; "another time." "Why another time?" he said. "Ah, I see," he cried, with jealous fury, for, glancing beyond her, he suddenly became aware of the figure of Sir Mark approaching them; and, turning a curious, inquiring look upon the girl, he glanced back at Sir Mark. "There is the reason, then. And it is for this gay court-bird that rough Gilbert Carr is thrown aside." Had it been lighter he would not, in his then excited mood, have read aright the look of reproach in the poor girl's face as she hurried onward to hide the burning tears that flooded her eyes, and reached home to find Father Brisdone waiting by the garden-gate. "Ah, my child," he said, saluting her; "a goodly evening. How sweet the wild-flowers smell! Why, what is wrong? You seem in trouble." "Yes, yes, father," she whispered, excitedly. "A sudden fear has assailed me. Go down towards the meadow, follow them into the wood, if they have gone there; my heart tells of mischief." "They? Who, child?" said the father, quickly. "Sir Mark--Gilbert Carr. I fear they will quarrel." "Have they cause?" said the father, inquiringly. "Here is Master Peasegood. He was to meet me. Well met, Brother Joseph," he said, as the stout clerk waddled up. "Leave it to us, dear child, and we will bring these mad boy's to their senses."