very flower I have, and not even know that
the world goes round, while I look up at you, the whole day long and
say, 'John, I love, love, love you?'"

During these words she leaned upon me, half in gay imitation of what
I had so often made her do, and half in depth of earnestness, as the
thrice-repeated word grew stronger, and grew warmer, with and to her
heart. And as she looked up at the finish, saying, "you," so musically,
I was much inclined to clasp her round; but remembering who she was,
forbore; at which she seemed surprised with me.

"Mistress Lorna," I replied, with I know not what temptation, making
little of her caresses, though more than all my heart to me: "Mistress
Lorna, you must keep your rank and proper dignity. You must never look
at me with anything but pity now."

"I shall look at you with pity, John," said Lorna, trying to laugh it
off, yet not knowing what to make of me, "if you talk any more of this
nonsense, knowing me as you ought to do. I shall even begin to think
that you, and your friends, are weary of me, and of so long supporting
me; and are only seeking cause to send me back to my old misery. If it
be so, I will go. My life matters little to any one." Here the great
bright tears arose; but the maiden was too proud to sob.

"Sweetest of all sweet loves," I cried, for the sign of a tear defeated
me; "what possibility could make me ever give up Lorna?"

"Dearest of all dears," she answered; "if you dearly love me, what
possibility could ever make me give you up, dear?"

Upon that there was no more forbearing, but I kissed and clasped her,
whether she were Countess, or whether Queen of England; mine she was, at
least in heart; and mine she should be wholly. And she being of the same
opinion, nothing was said between us.

"Now, Lorna," said I, as she hung on my arm, willing to trust me
anywhere, "come to your little plant-house, and hear my moving story."

"No story can move me much, dear," she answered rather faintly, for any
excitement stayed with her; "since I know your strength of kindness,
scarcely any tale can move me, unless it be of yourself, love; or of my
poor mother."

"It is of your poor mother, darling. Can you bear to hear it?" And yet I
wondered why she did not say as much of her father.

"Yes, I can bear anything. But although I cannot see her, and have long
forgotten, I could not bear to hear ill of her."

"There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except of evil done t