any news of my darling. You
knew I would come: of course you did."

"Well, I thought, perhaps--you know: now, John, you need not eat my
hand. Do you see they have put iron bars across?"

"To be sure. Do you think I should be contented, even with this lovely
hand, but for these vile iron bars. I will have them out before I go.
Now, darling, for one moment--just the other hand, for a change, you
know."

So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt
their delicate beauty trembling, as I laid them to my heart.

"Oh, John, you will make me cry directly"--she had been crying long
ago--"if you go on in that way. You know we can never have one another;
every one is against it. Why should I make you miserable? Try not to
think of me any more."

"And will you try the same of me, Lorna?"

"Oh yes, John; if you agree to it. At least I will try to try it."

"Then you won't try anything of the sort," I cried with great
enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy: "the only thing
we will try to try, is to belong to one another. And if we do our best,
Lorna, God alone can prevent us."

She crossed herself, with one hand drawn free as I spoke so boldly;
and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from
answering.

"Now tell me," I said; "what means all this? Why are you so pent up
here? Why have you given me no token? Has your grandfather turned
against you? Are you in any danger?"

"My poor grandfather is very ill: I fear that he will not live long. The
Counsellor and his son are now the masters of the valley; and I dare
not venture forth, for fear of anything they might do to me. When I went
forth, to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick
for him. Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now; so that
I could send no message. I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should
think me false to you. The tyrants now make sure of me. You must watch
this house, both night and day, if you wish to save me. There is nothing
they would shrink from; if my poor grandfather--oh, I cannot bear to
think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son
to tend him, or a daughter to shed a tear."

"But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many," I was going to
say, but stopped myself in time: "why do none of them come to him?"

"I know not. I cannot tell. He is a very strange old man; and few have
ever loved him. He was black with wrath