“He stept so lightly to the land, All in his manly pride: He kissed her cheek, he pressed her hand, Yet still she glanced aside. ‘Too gay he seems,’ she darkly dreams, ‘Too gallant and too gay To think of me—poor simple me— When he is far away!’ ‘I bring my Love this goodly pearl Across the seas,’ he said: ‘A gem to deck the dearest girl That ever sailor wed!’ She clasps it tight: her eyes are bright: Her throbbing heart would say ‘He thought of me—he thought of me— When he was far away!’ The ship has sailed into the West: Her ocean-bird is flown: A dull dead pain is in her breast, And she is weak and lone; Yet there’s a smile upon her face, A smile that seems to say ‘He’ll think of me—he’ll think of me— When he is far away! ‘Though waters wide between us glide, Our lives are warm and near: No distance parts two faithful hearts— Two hearts that love so dear: And I will trust my sailor-lad, For ever and a day, To think of me—to think of me— When he is far away!’” The look of displeasure, which had begun to come over Arthur’s face when the young Captain spoke of Love so lightly, faded away as the song proceeded, and he listened with evident delight. But his face darkened again when Eric demurely remarked “Don’t you think ‘my _soldier_-lad’ would have fitted the tune just as well!” “Why, so it would!” Lady Muriel gaily retorted. “Soldiers, sailors, tinkers, tailors, what a lot of words would fit in! I think ‘my _tinker_-lad’ sounds best. Don’t _you_?” To spare my friend further pain, I rose to go, just as the Earl was beginning to repeat his particularly embarrassing question about the flowers. “You have not yet——” “Yes, I’ve _had_ some tea, thank you!” I hastily interrupted him. “And now we really _must_ be going. Good evening, Lady Muriel!” And we made our adieux, and escaped, while the Earl was still absorbed in examining the mysterious bouquet. Lady Muriel accompanied us to the door. “You _couldn’t_ have given my father a more acceptable present!” she said, warmly. “He is so passionately fond of Botany. I’m afraid _I_ know nothing of the _theory_ of it, but I keep his _Hortus Siccus_ in order. I must get some sheets of blotting-paper, and dry these new treasures for him before they fade.” “_That_ won’t be no good at all!” said Bruno, who was waiting for us in the garden. “Why won’t it?” said I. “You know I _had_ to give the flowers, to stop questions.” “Yes, it ca’n’t be helped,” said Sylvie: “but they _will_ be sorry when they find them gone!” “But how will they go?” “Well, I don’t know _how_. But they _will_ go. The nosegay was only a _Phlizz_, you know. Bruno made it up.”