rong all this was. He loved her; in a
thousand eloquent ways he told her so. She was his loadstar, beautiful
and peerless. It was far more pleasant to sit on the sea shore, or
under the greenwood trees, listening to such words than to pass long,
dreary hours indoors. And none of those intrusted with the care of the
young girl ever dreamed of her danger.

So this was the love her mother dreaded so much. This was the love
poets sung of and novelists wrote about. It was pleasant; but in after
days, when Beatrice herself came to love, she knew that this had been
but child's play.

It was the romance of the stolen meeting that charmed Beatrice. If Hugh
had been admitted to the Elms she would have wearied of him in a week;
but the concealment gave her something to think of. There was
something to occupy her mind; every day she must arrange for a long
ramble, so that she might meet Hugh. So, while the corn grew ripe in
the fields, and the blossoms died away--while warm, luxurious summer
ruled with his golden wand Ronald Earle's daughter went on to her fate.

Chapter XVIII

At length there came an interruption to Hugh Fernely's love dream. The
time drew near when he must leave Seabay. The vessel he commanded was
bound for China, and was to sail in a few days. The thought that he
must leave the beautiful girl he loved so dearly and so deeply struck
him with unendurable pain; he seemed only to have lived since he had
met her, and he knew that life without her would be a burden too great
for him to bear. He asked himself a hundred times over: "Does she love
me?" He could not tell. He resolved to try. He dared not look that
future in the face which should take her from him.

The time drew near; the day was settled on which the "Seagull" was to
set sail, and yet Hugh Fernely had won no promise from Beatrice Earle.

One morning Hugh met her at the stile leading from the field into the
meadow lane--the prettiest spot in Knutsford. The ground was a
perfectly beautiful carpet of flowers--wild hyacinths, purple
foxgloves, pretty, pale strawberry blossoms all grew there. The hedges
were one mass of wild roses and woodbine; the tall elm trees that ran
along the lane met shadily overhead; the banks on either side were
radiant in different colored mosses; huge ferns surrounded the roots of
the trees.

Beatrice liked the quiet, pretty, green meadow lane. She often walked
there, and on this eventful morning Hugh saw