ove
could resume its familiarity.

"'Tis Mr. Elliot," presently said Marguerite, addressing her sister in
English. "Mr. Chevalier, the Centenier, told you of his return but
yesterday when we went to the market at S. Helier. I admire to see him
here so soon."

Rose advanced, with the restored self-possession of a lady on her own
hearth, and gave the visitor her hand. "Welcome back to Jersey, Mr.
Elliot. Time hath dealt kindly with you: you are almost grown to man's
estate."

The young Scot flushed, somewhat angrily, at this equivocal compliment.
"What Time hath done with me I cannot tell," said he, with less than his
wonted ease, "save that nothing Time can do can avail to quench old
feelings. This is the first liberty that I have had since we landed. I
have used it to lay myself at your feet."

The ladies resumed their seats, motioning Tom to the place between them,
just vacated by Le Gallais: and the talk soon ran into easier grooves.

"I have that to say," continued the page, "that may shake your spirits,
fair ladies. What I have listened to this day it may cost me my ears to
have heard. But," with an air of important resolution, "cost what it
may, I will not nor cannot keep it from you."

"A groat for your tidings," replied Rose, "we poor women hear none in
this remote corner. But is it a secret? Women may keep one," she added,
looking at the panel that had closed on Le Gallais, "but walls have
ears: and so have you, as yet such as they are, which I would not have
you sacrifice in our cause. If therefore your news be dangerous, think
not of our curiosity, and give the matter no vent."

Elliot was a scamp, no doubt, yet he could not but be moved by this
thoughtful speech of a woman who could decline a secret. But he had come
too far, laden with a burden that he would fain lay down. So long as he
kept to himself what he had heard in the King's chamber he might be
doing his duty to Charles. But Charles had insulted him and his nation.
Marguerite de St. Martin was his first love, the welfare of herself and
her sister was at stake; he had trudged, four miles and more through the
mire of steep and devious lanes to tell them; was he to leave them
unwarned? Love and Duty fought their old battle, and with the old
result--Love conquered and the secret was told. He had not, it is true,
heard the full purport of the Secretary's grave words or of Charles'
light replies: but what he had caught, tallying with the Chaplain's