"Without me?" "I mean now that you are here. Good-night, Kingsley." "A moment yet. I will wait till the nightingale has finished its song." "You foolish Kingsley! It will sing for hours." "Nansie, I have so much to tell you!" "And I to tell you; but this is not the time. To-morrow at sunrise." "Yes, to-morrow at sunrise." He kissed her hand again. "Nansie, my father has arrived home." "At last!" There was a tremor of apprehension in her voice. "Have you seen him?" "Not yet. But he has sent for me, and I am going to him after seeing you to-morrow." "Where will you sleep, Kingsley?" "I have a bed at Godalming; but I am in no humor for sleep." "Be reasonable, Kingsley, if you love me." She leaned forward, raised his hand to her lips, and kissed it. "Now are you content?" "I should be false to you if I were to say I am. There, I have given you back your hand. Are _you_ content?" "It is yours forever and ever. Good-night, my love!" "Good-night, my heart! To-morrow at sunrise. Mind--not a moment later! Do not close the window yet." He managed to pluck some daisies, and he threw them up at her. She caught them, and even in the dark she could distinguish the golden tufts within their silver crowns. "Good-night, my love," she sighed again, pressing the flowers to her lips. "Good-night, my heart!" She listened to the last faint echo of his footfall, and then she sought her bed, and, smiling happily, fell asleep, with the daisies on her pillow. CHAPTER III. Between midnight and sunrise a slight shower had fallen, scarcely damping the ground, but sufficient to draw out the perfume of the young flowers. The promise of spring was fulfilled, and tender bloom peeped up in places, and in others showed itself more boldly. About the trunks of ancient trees the sweet woodruff lurked; in sunny hedges the "cuckoo buds of yellow hue" proclaimed themselves; the heart-shaped leaves of the Irish shamrock were slowly unfolding; species of wild geranium and the strangely shaped orchises were abundant, the general commonwealth being represented by myriads of golden buttercups. Nansie and Kingsley stood near a great hawthorn, not yet in full bud, but already emitting a deliciously fine fragrance born of the light rain which had fallen during the night. "Why, Nansie," Kingsley was saying to her, "I never suspected you had gypsy blood in you." "I have none, as you know," was her response. "It was my father's whim, for which, I dare say, if he were here and was inclined to do so, he could give you several reasons. You can guess some of them, Kingsley." "The first and foremost is that he wished to keep us apart. He has not succeeded. I would hunt you all over the world, Nansie." "You must not be unjust to my father," said Nansie, "He was always full of fancies, Kingsley, but never harbored a bad one; and you must remember he does not know our secret yet. I love and honor him; he is a good man."