"Perhaps never again, Arthur," replied the girl, with her face full of smiles and tears, for she was less affected than her lover. "I shall never forget you, Mr. Lydiard, or all the pleasant walks and meetings we have had, by these green lanes, by the Bray-hill above the sea, and ever so many places more." "And you call me Mr. Lydiard? Oh, Mona, can you leave me so coldly?" he asked, sadly; "may I not write to you in London?" "Ah, good heavens, no!" she exclaimed, with all a school-girl's terror. "What would mamma say? And then there is papa!" It was delightful to have a lover; but not delightful that the fact should come to the ears of such a papa as Mr. Basset Tresilian. "Then I have no hope?" "Yes, you have," said she, playfully tickling his face with her riding switch. "Oh, name it, Mona!" "I have an uncle named Tresilian down here in this country." "He who succeeded to Restormel Court, or some such place?" "Exactly, Arthur--the same." "Well?" asked Arthur, little thinking that she referred to his own and well-loved father. "Papa thinks we shall spend our Christmas holidays with him.--he is so jolly!--and, somehow, it will go hard with me if I don't get an invitation for Mr. Arthur Lydiard." An expression of thanks and quietude spread over the young man's face, mingled with great sadness, for she added,-- "I must go now--must leave you, Arthur." "Oh, Mona! Mona! it seems so hard to lose you now!" "My darling Arthur!" exclaimed the girl, giving way to a shower of tears, as his arms encircled her slender waist, and she permitted her soft, bright face to fall upon his shoulder. But at that moment they were rudely interrupted. Arthur felt himself seized by the arm and thrust violently aside by a grave and stern-looking man about forty years of age. This person was in mourning, and instinct told the lover that he must be Mona's father. He seized her pony by the bridle, and--after darting a furious glance at Arthur, a glance not unmingled with surprise, as he saw in his face a likeness to some one, he knew not whom--led the young lady away through a wicket in a thick beech-hedge and shut it. Ere he did so, however, he turned and said to Arthur,-- "Whoever you are, young fellow, let such tomfoolery cease. This young lady leaves to-night for London. Attempt to write to, or follow her, at your peril; and I may add that we shall dispense with the pleasure of your distinguished society at Restormel Court in the Christmas week."