whose shrine Lucy laid her heart. If there
were spots in the sun, 'wandering isles of night,' which were at this time
somewhat darkening its lustre, they were unknown to Lucy Forrester. Philip
Sidney was to her all that was noble, pure, and true, and, as she put on
her prettiest cap, with its long veil and little edge of seed pearls,
Mary's gift, and crossed her finest kerchief across her breast, she saw
herself in the bit of polished steel which served for her mirror, and
smiled as she thought,--

'What if I meet him on the way, he may look at me with some approval. I
cannot help it. I do love to be fair, and why should I pretend I am ugly,
even to myself. No,' she went on turning her graceful head, first to the
right and then to the left, before the little mirror; 'no, I can't pretend
to be ugly, like Doll Ratcliffe, who makes eyes at poor old George. She may
have him, ay, and welcome, for all I care.'

Lucy was pirouetting round the confined space of her attic chamber, which
was bare enough of all ornament, and mean and humble in its furniture, when
little Ambrose's feet were heard on the wooden stairs leading to this upper
story of the old house, and he called, in his loud, childish treble,--

'Aunt Lou, you are to come down and see Mr Sidney.'

Lucy clasped her small hands together in an ecstasy of delight.

'Is it true--is it true, Ambrose? Child, is it true?'

'I always say true things, mother saith lies are wicked,' the boy
exclaimed. 'You are very pretty, Aunt Lou. I like you. I wish mother would
wear red gowns, and--and--'

But Lucy paid no heed to the child's compliments. She gave a parting look
at the mirror, and then brushed past little Ambrose and went downstairs
with a beating heart.

Mr Sidney was standing on the rough ground before Ford Place, leaning
against the gnarled trunk of an ancient thorn tree, which had yet life
enough left in it to put forth its tiny, round buds of pink and white, soon
to open and fill the air with fragrance.

By his side Mary Gifford stood, with her face turned towards the smiling
landscape before her.

Philip Sidney, with the courtesy of the true gentleman, advanced to Lucy
with his cap in his hand, bending the knee, and greeting her with all the
grace and courtly ceremony with which he would have greeted the highest
lady in the land.

The girl's face shone with proud delight, and the young voice trembled a
little as she said, in answer to his question,--

'I