were honest and
bonny. In short, a man in looking at Arthur Heigham at the age of
twenty-four would have reflected that, even among English gentlemen,
he was remarkable for his gentleman-like appearance, and a "fellow one
would like to know;" a girl would have dubbed him "nice-looking;" and
a middle-aged woman--and most women do not really understand the
immense difference between men until they are getting on that way--
would have recognized in him a young man by no means uninteresting,
and one who might, according to the circumstances of his life, develop
into anything or--nothing in particular.

Presently, drawn by some unguessed attraction, Arthur took his eyes
off an industrious water-hen, who was building a nest in a hurried
way, as though she were not quite sure of his intentions, and
perceived a large raven standing on one leg on the grass, about three
yards from him, and peering at him comically out of one eye. This was
odd. But his glance did not stop at the raven, for a yard or two
beyond it he caught sight of a white skirt, and his eyes, travelling
upwards, saw first a rounded waist, and then a bust and pair of
shoulders such as few women can boast, and at last, another pair of
eyes; and he then and there fell utterly and irretrievably in love.

"Good heavens!" he said, aloud--poor fellow, he did not mean to say
it, it was wrung from the depths of his heart--"good heavens, how
lovely she is!"

Let the reader imagine the dreadful confusion produced in that other
pair of eyes at the open expression of such a sentiment, and the vivid
blush that stained the fair face in which they were set, if he can.
But somehow they did not grow angry--perhaps it was not in the nature
of the most sternly repressive young lady to grow angry at a
compliment which, however marked, was so evidently genuine and
unpremeditated. In another moment Arthur bethought him of what he had
said, and it was his turn to blush. He recovered himself pretty well,
however. Rising from his stone seat, he took off his hat, and said,
humbly,

"I beg your pardon, but you startled me so, and really for a moment I
thought that you were the spirit of the place, or," he added,
gracefully, pointing to a branch of half-opened hawthorn bloom she
held in her hand, "the original Queen of the May."

Angela blushed again. The compliment was only implied this time; she
had therefore no possible pretext for getting angry.

For a moment she dropped the swee