John left home, with a guinea in his pocket and with love in his heart. He did well, even in his first situation. He lived in the farm-house with Mr. and Mrs. Wake, about seven miles from his father's house. He did not then dream that he should ever visit any distant shore connected with his native country. His dreams were of home, industry, and peace. He had enough--was contented--was well respected; had good health and full employment, and was a burden to no one. From his constant habit of witnessing the energy, and activity, and good disposition of the youthful Margaret, and from a certain knowledge of her past misfortunes, he imbibed a delicacy of interest in her behalf, which was shown to her by repeated acts of respect, which others on the farm less delicate did not care to show. Margaret herself perceived these attentions, and felt grateful to him for them. Whilst some would now and then relate what they heard of the wild adventures of Hudson the smuggler, John Barry always carefully concealed any mention of matters which he could see gave her pain. So cautious had been his advances towards a more intimate acquaintance with Margaret, that no one on the farm suspected that John Barry, the son of the well-to-do Mr. Barry, of Levington, was in the least captivated by the humble maid of the Priory. Margaret, however, suspected and dreaded that such might be the case; and she avoided him as pointedly as she could, without offence to one whom she so much respected. Barry, however, was too honest to conceal his feelings from the only person he wished to know them. Returning one evening from work along Gainsborough's Lane, he met Margaret, who had been to Sawyer's farm upon an errand for her mistress. "Margaret, you know I love you," said the young man, "though I do not believe that any one upon the farm besides yourself has any idea of it." "I feared you did, John, and it grieves me very much to hear you say so." "But why should it grieve you? I love you honestly, and will always do my best to make you happy." "Yes, John, I do not doubt you in anything you say, and I feel very grateful to you for your kindness; but I cannot return your love." "Why not, Margaret? Why should you not learn to like me? I am not indeed like your former lover, but I think I love you quite as well." "That may be also, John; but when I tell you that it is impossible for me to suffer you to cherish such feelings, you will, I hope, not be angry with me." "I am not angry: I know your past attachment; but I hope that you do not intend to live and die single because Laud is dead." "No; but whilst he lives, John, I neither can nor ought to give encouragement to any other." "But he is dead!" "I would let any one else but yourself suppose so." "My brother Edward told me himself that he saw him fall." "Yes, John, and your brother Edward thought that he gave him his death-blow; but I am happy, for his sake and for Laud's, that it was not so."