ut he put away the thought from him.
He was a Redmond, and it was his duty to marry; he had grown very fond
of the shy gentle little creature; he could make her happy, for the
child liked him, he thought; and it would be pleasant to have her
bright face to welcome him when he went home.

So one evening, as they walked up and down the shrubbery, while Aunt
Griselda knitted in the porch, Hugh took Fay's hand, and asked her
gently if she thought she could love him well enough to be his wife.
Poor simple little child! she hardly knew how to answer him; but Hugh,
who had caught a glimpse of the happy blushing face, was very gentle
and patient with her shyness, and presently won from her the answer he
wanted. She did like him--so much he understood her to say--he was so
kind, and had given her so much pleasure. Yes--after much pressing on
Hugh's part--she was sure that she liked him well enough, but she
could not be induced to say more.

But Hugh was quite content with his victory; he wanted no words to
tell him that Fay adored him from the depths of her innocent heart; he
could read the truth in those wonderful eyes--Fay had no idea how
eloquent they were.

"How could she help loving him?" she said to herself that night, as
she knelt down in the moonlight; had she ever seen any one like him.
No little imprisoned princess ever watched her knight more proudly
than Fay did when Hugh rode away on his big black mare. He was like a
king, she thought, so kind, and handsome, and gracious; and Fay prayed
with tears that she might be worthy of the precious gift that had come
to her.

And so one lovely August day, when Aunt Griselda's sunny little garden
was sweet with the breath of roses and camellias, Sir Hugh and Fay
were married in the little church at Daintree, and as Hugh looked down
on his child-wife, something like compunction seized him, and from the
depths of his sore heart he solemnly promised that he would keep his
vow, and would cherish and love her, God helping, to his life's end.

CHAPTER VI.

BEULAH PLACE.

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife.

BYRON.

.... A sorrow not, a son.

ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.

In one of the dingiest suburbs of London there is a small plot of
ground known by the name of the Elysian Fields; but how it had ever
acquired t