ate, Martin!"

"'Tis a truth," says I bitterly, "a truth that hath become part of me!
It hath been my companion in solitude, my comfort in my shameful
misery, my hope, my very life or I had died else! And now--now you bid
me forget it--as 'twere some mere whimsy, some idle fancy--this thought
that hath made me strong to endure such shames and tribulations as few
have been forced to suffer!"

"Aye, I do, I do!" she cried. "For your own sake, Martin, and for
mine."

"No!" quoth I, "A thousand times! This thought hath been life to me,
and only with life may I forego it!"

At this, the busy fingers faltered in their pretty labour, and, bowing
her head upon her hand, she sat, her face hid from me, until I, not
doubting that she wept, grew uneasy and questioned her at last.

"Nay, my lady--since this must be so--wherefore grieve?"

"Grieve?" says she lifting her head, and I saw her eyes all radiant and
her red lips up-curving in a smile. "Nay, Martin, I do marvel how
eloquent you grow upon your wrongs, indeed 'tis as though you feared
you might forget them. Thus do you spur up slothful memory, which
giveth me sure hope that one day 'twill sleep to wake no more."

And now, or ever I might find answer, she rose and giving me
"Good-night" was gone, singing, to her bed; and I full of bewilderment.
But suddenly as I sat thus, staring into the dying fire, she was back
again.

"What now?" I questioned.

"Our goat, Martin! I may not sleep until I know her safe--come let us
go look!" and speaking, she reached me her hand. So I arose, and thus
with her soft, warm fingers in mine we went amid the shadows where I
had tethered the goat to a tree hard beside the murmurous rill and
found the animal lying secure and placidly enough, the kid beside her.
The which sight seemed to please my lady mightily.

"But 'tis shame the poor mother should go tied always thus. Could you
not make a picket fence, Martin? And she should have some refuge
against the storms," to the which I agreed. Thus as we went back we
fell to making plans, one project begetting another, and we very blithe
about it.

CHAPTER XXXV

HOW MY DEAR LADY WAS LOST TO ME

And now followed a season of much hard work, each day bringing its
varied tasks and we right joyous in our labour, so that ofttimes I
would hear her singing away in her sweet voice merry as any grig, or
find myself whistling lustily to the tap of my hammer. And now indeed
my saw (and