But John Charles, steadfast in all things, was particularly admirable in his silences. He let his mother rail on, and then, at the quiet hour of e’en stole down to the dyke-side for a "word." He never entered Carnation’s dwelling, nor did he even pass the girdling hedge of yew and privet. But there was one place where the defences were worn low. Behind the well curb occurred this breach of continuity in the dead engineer’s hedges, and to this place night after night through the years, that quiet steadfast lover, John Charles Morrison, came to touch the hand of his mistress. She did not always meet him. Sometimes she had girl friends with her in the cottage, sometimes she had been carried off to a merry-making in Cairn Edward, to return under suitable escort in the evening. But even then Carnation had a comfortable sense of safety, for ever since one unforgotten night, Carnation knew that in any danger she had only to raise her voice to bring to her rescue a certain tall broad-shouldered ghost, which with attendant collies haunted the gray hillsides. That night was one on which a tramp, denied an alms, had seized the girl by the arm within half a mile of her home. And at the voice of her sharp crying, a different John Charles from any she had ever seen had swung himself over the hillside dyke, and descended like an avenging whirlwind upon the assailant. Yet so secretive is the country lover, that few save an odd shepherd or two of his own suspected the comradeship which existed between these two. Carnation was in great request at concerts and church bazaars in the little neighbouring town; she even went to a local "assembly" or two every winter, under the sheltering wing of a school friend who had married early. John Charles did not dance, so he was not asked to these. He was thought, indeed, to be rather a grave young fellow, busied with his farm and his books. No one connected his name with that of his fair and sprightly neighbour. Yet somehow, in spite of many opportunities, Carnation Maybold did not marry. She was bright, cultivated, winsome, and certainly the prettiest girl for miles around. "Are you waiting for a prince?" little Mrs. George Walter, her friend of the assemblies, had said to her more than once. "Yes," smiled Carnation, "the true Prince!" "I suppose that is why you always wear a ribbon of true blue?" retorted her friend. "Do let me see what is at the end of it—ah, you will not. I think you are very mean, Carnation. All is over between us from this moment. I’m sure I came and told _you_ as soon as ever George spoke!" "But perhaps," said Carnation quietly, "_my_ George has not yet spoken!" "Well, if he hasn’t, why don’t you make him," said her friend with vehemence, "or else why have eyes like those been thrown away upon you?" "I have worn this nearly ten years!" said Carnation, a little wistfully.