d little
jokes failed to drive them away, she would cling to his arm and entreat
him not to send her back. "If I see that place again I shall die," she
once said, and the look in her eyes, and the way her small hand went to
her throat, as though the very thought impeded her breathing, told him
that she spoke the truth.

What was he to do with her? That was the question that occupied him for
many a day. The summer had passed, and autumn was well advanced before
he found the right answer.

One October afternoon he had taken her out for a walk as usual, and
they had sat down to rest on a bench under a wide-spreading chestnut
tree overlooking a village green. An aged donkey and some geese were
feeding near them, but there was no one in sight. The old gammers and
gaffers of the village were sitting by their firesides, for, in spite
of the sunshine, the air was cold, and more than once Verity shivered
as she sat.

"This wind is too cold for you, my child," he said presently; "let us
walk on." But she shook her head.

"No, please let us stay a little longer. I do so love this village. If
I were an artist I would paint it. Amias," interrupting herself, "there
is something I want to say to you. I have been at dear Colbrook seven
months--seven happy, beautiful months--but I am well now, and quite
strong, and it is time for me to work and get my own living."

Verity spoke with great determination, but he noticed that her lips
were white and drawn, and that there was a strained look in her eyes,
and a sort of pitiful feeling came over him, such as a mother would
feel for a suffering child. In spite of her brave words, he knew how
she dreaded to face the world, though her womanly pride and spirit
would prevent her from telling him so. More than once she had hinted to
him that she felt herself a burden on his generosity; but at the first
word he had checked her.

"How old are you, dear?" he asked by way of answer to her remark. The
question seemed to surprise her.

"Oh, Amias, don't you remember I was seventeen on the first of May, and
Mrs. Craven gave us a syllabub in honour of the occasion?" and Verity's
dark eyes were a little reproachful. It seemed so strange to her that
he could have forgotten that day. But Amias only tugged at his
moustache and pondered deeply.

"I have it," he said briskly. "Verity, you shall be married on your
eighteenth birthday, and you shall marry me." Then, as the girl shrank
from him, and her