Then I asked her how she had come to me that day instead of her father, for up to now my joy had been so great at being with her, that I had forgotten that it was not her that I had expected to see. "That, too, is strange," she answered. "He gave this letter to a servant in my hearing, and bade him take it to you; so I asked the man to give it to me, and he made no objection." I puzzled greatly at this, and I could think of no answer to the puzzle, save that Naomi must have won the servant's heart, as she won all hearts. Or, perhaps, he knew what it was to love, and had guessed her secret. I opened the letter, and this was what I read: "_Will Jasper Pennington meet John Penryn, Lawyer Trefy, and the family of Tresidders at Pennington on Thursday at six o'clock in the evening?_" "That must mean to-day," I said. "What can they want of me at Pennington?" But I did not trouble much about the matter then, for was not Naomi with me? Neither did she seem in a hurry to return to Pennington. Her father was in Truro, she said, and had given no orders as to her conduct. So we left the copse and wandered away into Pennington Woods, my love and I. I shall never forget that day. How can I when I think of the days that followed? It was one of those glorious winter days, when the air was crisp and frosty, and when the blood of healthy people surges through their veins with richness and fulness of life. The merle and the mavis sung their love-songs, even although it was winter, the squirrels climbed the bare branches of the trees, while even the rabbits besported themselves gaily. And Naomi and I, because we loved each other, were as gay as any lambs that frolic on the warm days of May. Ay, we were young; and I, even although I was almost penniless, was happy in my strength and my youth. Thus is God kind to His children. As for Naomi, I, who am but poor at stringing words together, can never tell how beautiful she was. Ay, even Mr. William Shakespeare, great man as he was, could never have done justice to such beauty as that of my love. She was proud of me, too, although I was poor and friendless. She admired my finery greatly, and told me that I looked all a man should look. "Whenever I have seen you before," she said, "you have been strangely attired; and sometimes I have been almost afraid of you, you have looked so fierce and strong." "But you are glad I am strong, my little one?" "Glad, ay; but I am not little," and indeed she was not little as maidens go, but she seemed little to me. "Yes; but you are little," I said laughingly. "You are but a feather's weight." At this she pretended to be offended, so I caught her up and held her at arm's length, just as I have seen mothers hold their children, and I laughed all the time in my joy. Then she called me names, although I could see she rejoiced in my strength--the strength which had saved her when she was in peril.