“No—listen. If ever it befel you to lose father or mother or dearly loved friend, you will know how the anguish stuns—Oh sir! to-day the sun seem’d fallen out of heaven, and I a blind creature left groping in the void. Indeed, sir, ’tis no wonder: I had a father, brother, and servant ready to die for me—three hearts to love and lean on: and to-day they are gone.” I would have spoken, but she held up a hand. “Now when you spoke of Anthony—a dear lad!—I lay for some time dazed with grief. By little and little, as the truth grew plainer, the pain grew also past bearing. I stood up and stagger’d into the woods to escape it. I went fast and straight, heeding nothing, for at first my senses were all confus’d: but in a while the walking clear’d my wits, and I could think: and thinking, I could weep: and having wept, could fortify my heart. Here is the upshot, sir—tho’ ’tis held immodest for a maid to ask even far less of a man. We are both bound for Cornwall—you on an honorable mission, I for my father’s estate of Gleys, wherefrom (as your tale proves) some unseen hands are thrusting me. Alike we carry our lives in our hands. You must go forward: I may not go back. For from a King who cannot right his own affairs there is little hope; and in Cornwall I have surer friends than he. Therefore take me, sir—take me for a comrade! Am I sad? Do you fear a weary journey? I will smile—laugh—sing—put sorrow behind me. I will contrive a thousand ways to cheat the milestones. At the first hint of tears, discard me, and go your way with no prick of conscience. Only try me—oh, the shame of speaking thus!” Her voice had grown more rapid toward the close: and now, breaking off, she put both hands to cover her face, that was hot with blushes. I went over and took them in mine: “You have made me the blithest man alive,” said I. She drew back a pace with a frighten’d look, and would have pull’d her hands away. “Because,” I went on quickly, “you have paid me this high compliment, to trust me. Proud was I to listen to you; and merrily will the miles pass with you for comrade. And so I say—Mistress Killigrew, take me for your servant.” To my extreme discomposure, as I dropp’d her hands, her eyes were twinkling with laughter. “Dear now; I see a dull prospect ahead if we use these long titles!” “But—” “Indeed, sir, please yourself. Only as I intend to call you ‘Jack’ perhaps ‘Delia’ will be more of a piece than ‘Mistress Killigrew.’” She dropp’d me a mock curtsey. “And now, Jack, be a good boy, and hitch me this quilt across the hut. I bought it yesterday at a cottage below here——” She ended the sentence with the prettiest blush imaginable; and so, having fix’d her screen, we shook hands on our comradeship, and wish’d each other good night. CHAPTER VIII. I LOSE THE KING’S LETTER; AND AM CARRIED TO BRISTOL.