ffering
look.

"'Twas the maid, in a little narrer pool ther' that's made by the
stoppin' of a rock--where I see the young gentleman bathin' once or
twice. 'Er was lyin' on 'er face in the watter. There was a plant o'
goldie-cups growin' out o' the stone just above 'er'ead. An' when I come
to luke at 'er face, 'twas luvly, butiful, so calm's a baby's--wonderful
butiful et was. When the doctor saw 'er, 'e said: 'Er culdn' never
a-done it in that little bit o' watter ef' er 'adn't a-been in an
extarsy.' Ah! an' judgin' from 'er face, that was just 'ow she was. Et
made me cry praaper-butiful et was! 'Twas June then, but she'd afound
a little bit of apple-blossom left over somewheres, and stuck et in 'er
'air. That's why I thinks 'er must abeen in an extarsy, to go to et gay,
like that. Why! there wasn't more than a fute and 'arf o' watter. But
I tell 'ee one thing--that meadder's 'arnted; I knu et, an' she knu et;
an' no one'll persuade me as 'tesn't. I told 'em what she said to
me 'bout bein' burried under th' apple tree. But I think that turned
'em--made et luke to much 's ef she'd 'ad it in 'er mind deliberate; an'
so they burried 'er up 'ere. Parson we 'ad then was very particular, 'e
was."

Again the old man drew his hand over the turf.

"'Tes wonderful, et seems," he added slowly, "what maids 'll du for
love. She 'ad a lovin-'eart; I guess 'twas broken. But us never knu
nothin'!"

He looked up as if for approval of his story, but Ashurst had walked
past him as if he were not there.

Up on the top of the hill, beyond where he had spread the lunch, over,
out of sight, he lay down on his face. So had his virtue been rewarded,
and "the Cyprian," goddess of love, taken her revenge! And before his
eyes, dim with tears, came Megan's face with the sprig of apple blossom
in her dark, wet hair. 'What did I do that was wrong?' he thought. 'What
did I do?' But he could not answer. Spring, with its rush of passion,
its flowers and song-the spring in his heart and Megan's! Was it just
Love seeking a victim! The Greek was right, then--the words of the
"Hippolytus" as true to-day!

"For mad is the heart of Love,
And gold the gleam of his wing;
And all to the spell thereof
Bend when he makes his spring.
All life that is wild and young
In mountain and wave and stream
All that of earth is sprung,
Or breathes in the red sunbeam;
Yea, and Mankind. O'er all a royal throne,
Cyp