can scarce do so, you
know.

"'But I'll wait twenty years, if she'll have me,' says he. 'I'll
never marry--no, never, never, never, marry anybody but her. No, not a
princess, though they would have me do it ever so. If Beatrix will wait
for me, her Blandford swears he will be faithful.' And he wrote a paper
(it wasn't spelt right, for he wrote 'I'm ready to SINE WITH MY BLODE,'
which, you know, Harry, isn't the way of spelling it), and vowing that
he would marry none other but the Honorable Mistress Gertrude Beatrix
Esmond, only sister of his dearest friend Francis James, fourth Viscount
Esmond. And so I gave him a locket of her hair."

"A locket of her hair?" cries Esmond.

"Yes. Trix gave me one after the fight with the Duchess that very day.
I am sure I didn't want it; and so I gave it him, and we kissed at
parting, and said--'Good-by, brother.' And I got back through the
gutter; and we set off home that very evening. And he went to King's
College, in Cambridge, and I'M going to Cambridge soon; and if he
doesn't stand to his promise (for he's only wrote once),--he knows I
wear a sword, Harry. Come along, and let's go see the cocking-match at
Winchester.

". . . . But I say," he added, laughing, after a pause, "I don't think
Trix will break her heart about him. La bless you! whenever she sees
a man, she makes eyes at him; and young Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's
Crawley, and Anthony Henley of Airesford, were at swords drawn about
her, at the Winchester Assembly, a month ago."

That night Mr. Harry's sleep was by no means so pleasant or sweet as it
had been on the first two evenings after his arrival at Walcote. "So the
bright eyes have been already shining on another," thought he, "and the
pretty lips, or the cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which they
were made for. Here's a girl not sixteen, and one young gentleman is
already whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country squires
are ready to cut each other's throats that they may have the honor of a
dance with her. What a fool am I to be dallying about this passion, and
singeing my wings in this foolish flame. Wings!--why not say crutches?
'There is but eight years' difference between us, to be sure; but in
life I am thirty years older. How could I ever hope to please such a
sweet creature as that, with my rough ways and glum face? Say that I
have merit ever so much, and won myself a name, could she ever listen
to me? She must be my Lady Marchione