“You do not like me well enough to marry me, then, Rosemary?” “Oh, yes, I do! Indeed, indeed I do; I would marry you in a minute, but—but—but——” “But—what?” “I am engaged!” CHAPTER V THE EARL IS STARTLED He held her off to get a better view of her face. Then he stared at her. “You! Engaged?” he cried. She nodded two or three times in reply. “Such a mite as you! Why, how long have you been engaged, pray?” “I—don’t quite know. Ever since I can remember.” “Oh! a family arrangement between your parents and your betrothed husband’s, I suppose?” “Oh, no; not at all! Only between him and me.” “At that early age! Do babies betroth themselves in America?” “I don’t quite know; but we did! And we were not both babies. He was a schoolboy, but I think I was a baby at first.” “At first, very likely! Well, when are you to be married?” “I don’t quite know. But not until Roland gets his rights and comes into his estates.” “Ah! there is litigation? But who is this happy man Roland?” “He is a mate on a merchantman at present. But when he gets his rights, I am sure he will be a nobleman of high rank, and maybe a prince of royal race.” “Oh!” said the earl, with a curious smile. Then, growing suddenly very grave, he inquired: “My dear child, do your parents know anything about your relations with this—adventurer?” “He is not an adventurer,” said Rosemary. “But when he, a skipper’s mate, represents himself to be a man of rank, kept out of his rights——” “But he don’t represent himself to be any other than what he seems!” “Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear! I thought you said he did.” “No; oh, no! I said that I feel sure that when he gets his rights, he will be a nobleman or a prince!” “Ah! but why should you think so, my dear!” “Oh! no one could look at Roland Bayard and not know him to be one of princely rank!” exclaimed Rosemary, with such solemn fervor that the earl turned and gazed at her. “And is this the only reason you have for thinking the young man of gentle blood?” “No! not only his looks, but his voice, speech, tone, manner, gesture—all proclaim him of noble blood!” As Rosemary spoke, she suddenly turned and looked intently at the earl, and then she added: “Yes! It is true! It is not imagination! I have thought of it often, though I never spoke of it before!” “Of what, my dear?” “Of Roland Bayard’s likeness to you!” “To me, my dear?” “Yes, to you! But for the difference in age and in health, he is as much like you as one man can be to another!” “Indeed!” “Yes, indeed!” “An imaginary or an accidental likeness, my child. But, Rosemary, to return to yourself. Do your parents, or guardians, know anything of your relations with this questionable stranger?” “He is not a questionable stranger. He was brought up among us at home. Did I not tell you he used to ride me on his shoulder when he was a boy and I was a baby?”