ily squabble which has lasted all these
generations. But it would be madness to speak yet.'

'It is that which makes me so unhappy, Dick. Why am I not like other
girls? Why can't you come to the farm and ask my father's leave to court
me, as other girls' sweethearts do, and as you would like to do? I
can't help feeling that this is wrong, meeting you in secret, and being
engaged to you against my father's will, without his knowledge.'

'The quarrel is not of our making, Julia. We only suffer by it. I hope
we shall bring it to an end, and teach two honest men to live at peace
together, as they ought. Why, you're crying.'

Her tears had been running quietly for some minutes past, but at this
she began to sob unrestrainedly. Dick comforted her in the orthodox
fashion, and in that sweet employment almost succeeded in forgetting
his own sorrow. He drew bright pictures of the future: youth held the
palette, and hope laid on the colour. Two or three years of partial
separation--so little--and he would have a livelihood in his hand, and
could offer her a safe asylum from parental tyranny, and bid his own
people either to accept the situation or renounce him, as they might
choose. He was quite heroic internally about the whole business. He felt
the promise of the coming struggle brace his nerves, and he was more
than ready for the test. Young love is selfish at the best, and the
heroic likeness of himself doing battle with the world of London half
obliterated the pitiful figure of the poor girl, left at home, with
nothing to fill her heart but dreams. For him, the delight of battle;
for her, long months of weary waiting.

It was no doubt of him, but only the rooted longing for assurance of his
love, that made her ask,

'You won't forget me, Dick, in London?'

Forget her! His repetition of the word, his little laugh of loving
scorn, were answer enough, though he found others, and arguments
unanswerable, to clinch them. How could he forget the sweetest, dearest
girl that ever drew the breath of life, the prettiest and the bravest?
She spoke treason against herself in asking such a question. He could
no more forget her in London than Romeo, Juliet in Mantua. She laughed
a little at his recalling the old story, from which Mrs. Jenny had
drawn so many illustrations of the course of their love since they were
children. It recalled the old woman to their minds.

'I shall write to you every week, and send the letters under cover