ve the girl with all my
heart, and she, no other, shall be my wife. If you refuse to act for me,
well and good; I shall find some one else."

"If you would but be reasonable, Lance," said his friend.

"I am not reasonable. When did you ever see reason and love go hand in
hand together?"

"They should do so always, and do, when the love is worth having."

"Now, Frank, I have listened patiently; I have heard all that you have
had to say; I have weighed every argument, and I remain unconvinced. You
have but to say whether you will do this to oblige me or not."

"If I do it, remember, it is under protest, Lance."

"Never mind what it is under, if you only promise."

"I promise, to save you from greater risk, but I do it against my will,
my reason, my good sense, my conscience, and everything else."

Lord Chandos laughed aloud.

"You will forget everything of that kind," he said, "when you see
Leone."

And the two friends parted, mutually dissatisfied.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PROPHECY.

"A very impatient young man," said the good old vicar. "No man in his
senses would want to be married before ten in the morning. I call it
unchristian."

Good old Mr. Barnes had been roused from his early slumbers by the
announcement that the young man had come to be married.

Married, while the early morning sun was shining, and the birds singing
their morning hymn.

He was almost blind, this good old vicar, who had lived so long at
Oheton. He was very deaf, and could hardly hear, but then he did not
require very keen sight or hearing at Oheton; there was never more than
one marriage in a year, and funerals were very rare; but to be called
before nine in the morning to perform the marriage ceremony was
something unheard of. He had duly announced the bans, and no one had
taken the least notice of them; but to come so early, it was positively
cruel.

Others had risen early that morning. Leone had not slept well, for this
July morning, which was to bring such mingled joy and sorrow to others,
was a day of deepest emotion to her.

Her love-dream was to be realized. She was to marry the ardent young
lover who swore that he would not live without her.

She had thought more of her love than of the worldly advantages it would
bring her. She had not thought much of those until they stood, on the
evening before their wedding-day, once more by the mill-stream. It was
bright moonlight, for the smiling summer day was dead. It