s half
so beautiful, so clever as you--not one. I shall be more proud to take
you home as Lady Chandos than if you were a queen's daughter. You
believe me?"

"Yes, I believe _you_," she replied.

"Never mind any one else, Leone. My father admires beautiful women; he
will be sure to love you; my mother will be very disagreeable at first,
but in a short time she will learn to love you, and then all will be
well."

The little white hand clung to him.

"You are quite sure, Lance?" she said, with a sob--"quite sure?"

"Yes, sweet, I am more than sure. You will be Lady Chandos, of Cawdor,
and that is one of the oldest and grandest titles in England."

"But will your mother forgive you and love you again?" she asked,
anxiously.

"Yes, believe me. And now, Leone, let me tell you my plans. They are all
rather underhand, but we cannot help that; everything is fair in love
and war. About twenty miles from here there is a sleepy little village
called Oheton. I was there yesterday, and it was there that this plan
came to me. Oh, my darling, turn your sweet face to me and let me be
quite sure that you are listening."

"I am listening, Lance," she said.

"No, not with all your heart. See how well I understand you. Your eyes
linger on the water, and the falling of it makes music, and the rhyme of
the music is:

"'These vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broken.'

When will you trust me more thoroughly, Leone?"

She glanced at him with something of wonder, but more of fear.

"How do you know what I am thinking of?" she asked.

"I can guess from the tragical expression of your face, and the pathos
of your eyes as they linger on the falling water. Now, you shall not
look at the mill-stream, look at me."

She raised her dark, lustrous eyes to his face, and he went on:

"Over in this sleepy little village of Oheton, Leone--it is a sleepy
village--the houses are all divided from each other by gardens and
trees. Unlike most villagers, the people do not seem to know each other,
you do not hear any gossip; the people, the houses, the streets, all
seem sleepy together. At one end of the village is a church, one of the
most quaint, an old Norman church, that has stood like a monument while
the storms of the world raged around it; the vicar is the Reverend
Josiah Barnes."

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.

"You will soon understand," he replied. "The Reverend Mr. Barnes is over
sixty, and he, to