of Tresidders at Pennington on Thursday at six o'clock in the evening?_"

"That must mean to-day," I said. "What can they want of me at
Pennington?"

But I did not trouble much about the matter then, for was not Naomi with
me? Neither did she seem in a hurry to return to Pennington. Her father
was in Truro, she said, and had given no orders as to her conduct. So we
left the copse and wandered away into Pennington Woods, my love and I.

I shall never forget that day. How can I when I think of the days that
followed? It was one of those glorious winter days, when the air was
crisp and frosty, and when the blood of healthy people surges through
their veins with richness and fulness of life. The merle and the mavis
sung their love-songs, even although it was winter, the squirrels
climbed the bare branches of the trees, while even the rabbits besported
themselves gaily. And Naomi and I, because we loved each other, were as
gay as any lambs that frolic on the warm days of May. Ay, we were young;
and I, even although I was almost penniless, was happy in my strength
and my youth. Thus is God kind to His children. As for Naomi, I, who am
but poor at stringing words together, can never tell how beautiful she
was. Ay, even Mr. William Shakespeare, great man as he was, could never
have done justice to such beauty as that of my love.

She was proud of me, too, although I was poor and friendless. She
admired my finery greatly, and told me that I looked all a man should
look. "Whenever I have seen you before," she said, "you have been
strangely attired; and sometimes I have been almost afraid of you, you
have looked so fierce and strong."

"But you are glad I am strong, my little one?"

"Glad, ay; but I am not little," and indeed she was not little as
maidens go, but she seemed little to me.

"Yes; but you are little," I said laughingly. "You are but a feather's
weight."

At this she pretended to be offended, so I caught her up and held her at
arm's length, just as I have seen mothers hold their children, and I
laughed all the time in my joy.

Then she called me names, although I could see she rejoiced in my
strength--the strength which had saved her when she was in peril.

I will write no more concerning that joyful morning, much as I love to
think about it, for it was the sunshine of summer which precedes the
black night of winter.

I was not late that night at Pennington, you may be sure, for if I was
puzzled as to wh