said those words
to herself. It was after eight when she came in, and the farmer had long
finished his supper; he sat thinking over his pipe.

"You are late, my lady lass," he said; "sit down and talk to me before I
go to rest."

Obediently enough, she sat down while he told her the history of his
visits to the different markets. She heard, but did not take in the
sense of one single word he uttered. She was saying to herself over and
over again, that by this time to-morrow she should be Lady Chandos. Her
happiness would have been complete if she could have told her uncle. He
had been so kind to her. They were opposite as light and darkness, they
had not one idea in common, yet he had been good to her and she loved
him. She longed to tell him of her coming happiness and grandeur, but
she did not dare to break her word.

Robert Noel looked up in wonder. There was his beautiful niece kneeling
at his feet, her eyes dim with tears.

"Uncle," she was saying, "look at me, listen to me. I want to thank you.
I want you always to remember that on this night I knelt at your feet
and thanked you with a grateful heart for all you have ever done for
me."

"Why, my lady lass," he replied, "you have always been to me as a child
of my own," he replied.

"A tiresome child," she said, half laughing, half crying. "See. I take
this dear, brown hand, so hard with work, and I kiss it, uncle, and
thank you from my heart."

He could not recover himself, so to speak. He looked at her in blank,
wordless amazement.

"In the years to come," she continued, "when you think of me, you must
say to yourself, that, no matter what I did, I loved you."

"No matter what you did you loved me," he repeated. "Yes, I shall
remember that."

She kissed the toil-worn face, leaving him so entirely bewildered that
the only fear was lest he might sit up all night trying to forget it.

Then she went to her room, but not to sleep--her heart beat, every pulse
thrilled. This was to be the last night in her old home--the last of her
girlish life; to-morrow she would be Lady Chandos--wife of the young
lover whom she loved with all her heart and soul.

The birds woke her with their song, it was their wedding-day. She would
not see Robert Noel again; he took his breakfast before six and went off
to the fields again. She had but to dress herself and go to the station.
Oheton was some three miles from the station, but on a summer's morning
that was a trifle.