The one great difficulty was his poverty. Think how he would, he could discover no method by which it could be remedied. He had no means of obtaining employment, and employment would imply absence from her. How could he make her love him? He turned to his faithful friend and adviser, dear old Will. The tiny volume of poems was carefully scanned, and he lit upon those verses commencing— When as thine eye hath chose the dame And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike. He asked himself if he had done as the lover was advised— And when thou com’st thy tale to tell Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk. Certainly he had not attempted to beguile her with insinuating flattery— But plainly say thou lov’st her well, And set her person forth to sale. This he had not done. How dare he say he loved her well? He had not the courage to praise her person. And to her will frame all thy ways. This he was willing and ready enough to do. He believed he had done so already; but read on— Spare not to spend, and chiefly there Where thy desert may merit praise By ringing in thy lady’s ear. Here he was at a standstill. He could not spend; he could not even dress as a gentleman. He could not make her rich and beautiful presents. The strongest castle, tower, and town The golden bullet beats it down. He had no golden bullets—to him the castle was therefore impregnable. Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble, true— Advice such as this last he could and did follow conscientiously. Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?— Encouraging to those who could press the question, but he had not even courage to get the first nay. It was the “golden bullet”—the lack of the power to spend—the miserable poverty which pressed upon him with a leaden weight. He did his best to follow infallible Will’s advice. He snared twenty hares and sold them; he had still a small gold pencil-case left—it had belonged to his mother. He sold that also. On foot he walked forty miles to Reading, and spent the whole proceeds in the purchase of a pair of fine jet bracelets, which his instinct told him would look well upon Violet’s white wrist. When he had got them, came the difficulty—how could he give them to her? At last he employed a shepherd lad to leave a parcel for Miss Waldron. He kept away several days, but love was more powerful than shame. He went. With Violet he strolled up the long shady filbert walk, with the clusters, now ripe, hanging overhead. His heart beat fast, but he said nothing. On her part she was silent. Suddenly she lifted up her arm and reached after a cluster of the nuts high up. Her sleeve fell down; the beautiful arm was bare to the elbow, and there was the bracelet! Her eyes met his; a lovely colour suffused her cheek. An uncontrollable impulse seized him. He caught her hand and kissed it. Why linger? No one can tell how these things come about. Their lips met, and it is enough.