The sun was setting, as Delia and I stood on the beach, beside the boat that was to take her from me. Aboard the _Godsend_ I could hear the anchor lifting, and the men singing, as, holding Molly’s bridle, I held out my hand to the dear maid who with me had shar’d so many a peril. “Is there any more to come?” she ask’d. “No,” said I, and God knows my heart was heavy: “nothing to come but ‘Farewell!’” She laid her small hand in my big palm, and glancing up, said very pretty and demur— “_And shall I leave my best? Wilt not come, too, dear Jack?_” “Delia!” I stammer’d. “What is this? I thought you lov’d me not.” “And so did I, Jack: and thinking so, I found I loved thee better than ever. Fie on thee, now! May not a maid change her mind without being forced to such unseemly, brazen words?” And she heav’d a mock sigh. But as I stood and held that little hand, I seem’d across the very mist of happiness to read a sentence written, and spoke it, perforce and slow, as with another man’s mouth— “Delia, you only have I lov’d, and will love! Blithe would I be to live with you, and to serve you would blithely die. In sorrow, then, call for me, or in trust abide me. But go with you now—I may not.” She lifted her eyes, and looking full into mine, repeated slowly the verse we had read at our first meeting— “‘In a wife’s lap, as in a grave, Man’s airy notions mix with earth—’ —thou hast found it, sweetheart—thou has found the Splendid Spur!” She broke off, and clapp’d her hands together very merrily; and then, as a tear started— “But thou’lt come for me, ere long, Jack? Else I am sure to blame some other woman. Stay—” She drew off her ring, and slipp’d it on my little finger. “There’s my token! Now give me one to weep and be glad over.” Having no trinkets, I gave my glove: and she kiss’d it twice, and put it in her bosom. “I have no need of this ring,” said I: “for look!” and I drew forth the lock I had cut from her dear head, that morning among the alders by Kennet side, and worn ever since over my heart. “Wilt marry no man till I come?” “Now, that’s too hard a promise,” said she, laughing, and shaking her curls. “Too hard!” “Why, of course. Listen, sweetheart—a true woman will not change her mind: but, oh! she dearly loves to be able to! So, bating this, here’s my hand upon it—now, fie, Jack! and before all these mariners!—well, then if thou _must_—” * * * * * I watch’d her standing in the stern and waving, till she was under the _Godsend’s_ side: then turn’d, and mounting Molly, rode inland to the wars. THE END.