replied, "but it seems to me that it ends more in
sorrow than in joy. I should say," he continued, "that when truth meets
truth, where loyalty meets loyalty, the ending is good; but where a true
heart finds a false one, where loyalty and honor meet lightness and
falsehood, then the end must be bad."

Leone seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger,
and, of all subjects, they had fallen on love.

"I must go," she said, hurriedly. "You will remember the way."

"Pray do not go--just this minute," he said. "History may repeat itself;
life never does. There can never be a night half so fair as this again;
the water will never fall with so sweet a ripple; the stars will never
shine with so bright a light; life may pass, and we may never meet
again. You have a face like a poem. Stay a few minutes longer."

"A face like a poem." Did he really think so?

The words pleased her.

"Strange things happen in real life," he said; "things that, told in
novels and stories, make people laugh and cry out that they are
exaggerated, too romantic to be real. How strange that I should have met
you here this evening by the side of the mill-stream--a place always
haunted by poetry and romance. You will think it stranger still when I
tell you your face has haunted me all day."

She looked at him in surprise. The proud, beautiful face grieved at the
words.

"How is that?" she asked.

"I saw you this morning when I was going to Rashleigh with my friend,
Sir Frank Euston. You were standing against a white gate, and I
thought--well, I must not tell you what I thought."

"Why?" she asked, briefly.

"Because it might offend you," he replied.

He began to perceive that there was no coquetry in this beautiful girl.
She was proud, with a calm, serene, half-tragic pride. There would be no
flirtation by the side of the mill-stream. She looked as far above
coquetry as she was above affectation. He liked the proud calm of her
manner. She might have been a duchess holding court rather than a
country girl sitting by a mill-wheel. The idea occurred to him; and then
his wonder increased--who was she? and what was she doing here?

"Do you live near here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "behind the trees there you can see the chimneys of a
farmhouse; it is called Rashleigh Farm; my uncle, Robert Noel, lives
there; and I am his niece."

"His niece," repeated the young man, in an incredulous voice. She was a
farmer's niece, then,