But Aura had carried out her threat to Ladybird. The beautiful ring was in the river, and would never shine on the little white hand of her lovely rival. Her jealous malice was gratified, at least, and she cared very little if Earle fought a duel and lost his life. She would rather see him dead than married to that little coquette Ladybird. Meanwhile Miss Conway, all unconscious of what had happened at the lower end of the orchard, was sitting on a mossy throne under a wide-spreading apple tree, holding mimic court. Her adoring subjects had woven a wreath of apple blossoms, and crowned her Queen of May. "Somebody give us a song, please. It's a day for love, and poetry, and song!" she cried gayly. "Don't you think the birds sing sweetest, dear?" asked a fair girl by her side, one that she called her maid of honor. But the girl under the next nearest tree--the girl with the guitar--thought differently. She touched her instrument with soft, loving fingers, and her tender voice was so low and sweet that it seemed to blend with the bird songs, the soft rustle of the leaves, and the ripple of the river. "Oh, darling, when you love me, The sky is soft and bright; Life asks no troubled questions, The world is safe and right. I whisper happy secrets With every flower and tree, And lark and thrush and linnet Sing all their songs for me! "Oh, darling, when you chide me, The world is dumb and cold; The mists creep up the valley, And all the year is old; The fields are black and sodden, The shivering woods are sere! I see no face in heaven, And death is very near! "Oh, darling, always love me, The song-birds look to you; The skies await your bidding, To dome the world with blue. Then keep the rose in glory, And make the swallow stay, And hold the year forever At summer's crowning day!" While the pretty girl was singing, Earle Winans came up silently and stood by the tree, looking down at Ladybird with the apple-blossom wreath on her shining hair. Ladybird's arch, pretty face had grown pensive while she listened to the song, and her tiny white hand, with its babyish dimples, played absently with a branch of pink crab-apple blooms that lay in her lap. She was more lovely than any picture ever painted, and Earle's heart swelled with a passionate longing to catch the exquisite young creature in his arms and press all that budding beauty against his ardent breast. Ladybird knew that he was there, but she would not turn her head; and when the song came to an end she sighed and murmured softly: "I wonder what this love is like of which poets sing, and lovers rave, and spring-birds warble. It must be very sweet."