"Look you," she said, "there is something I would wish to say to you. You and I are to be man and wife--and I have accepted you--I know nothing of you, John--I know not whence you come, or from among what kinsfolk; I have taken all on trust. I love you, John, so I fear not. They say that perfect love casteth out fear. There can be no dark secret in your life, no deed or deeds that you shame to disclose to me. I take you with infinite faith. So tell me what you will, dear, or as much as you will. My heart will give you gratitude for the confidence you give to me, and, John, my love shall cover your silence." With a sudden impulse John Johnstone was down on his knees, he pressed her hands to his lips with a passion akin to worship. "My life, my love!" he cried--"my whole life shall be devoted to rewarding your trust in me. Oh, would to God I were more worthy of you!" Within the house Mistress Mary and Mr. Ives were very comfortable: they played a game of patience together (in which the former was a great proficient), they chatted, they waxed confidential, and not till Dame Martha summoned them to sup, did they perceive the lapse of time. Mr. Ives called from the window, and the betrothed pair came in, their eyes shining and dazzled by the bright light. Matters went on happily thus for many days--it seemed that the course of true love was to run very smooth--when one evening a little incident occurred that startled all. The little party of four were dining together, as they generally did. Mr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine, wine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he bade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it brimming to his lips, pledged "His sacred Majesty, good King George." With a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the table, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery. The parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek. Mistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in consternation. The colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. "Was this then the mystery?" The absent king held all her sympathies. Mr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat unsteadily: "Good sir, I am a man of peace. I love order and a strong government. Can I hazard my daughter by--" Now, strangely enough, Mary Jones came to the rescue. "Sirs," she said, "allow me to make a proposition; it is this, that not one of us breathe a word elsewhere of what has happened tonight. For heaven's sake say nothing, keep all dark, and on this understanding," she stooped forward and daintily raised her own glass, "I also pledge his Majesty over the sea." But Mr. Ives did not recover his spirits that night: presentiments of evil haunted him, misgivings that he had not done wisely by his darling. When the small hours of the morning struck he still lay awake, tossing restlessly to and fro. CHAPTER V.