ite as bravely to wait
the course of events, and let him have them, if convenient. On the other
hand, if the kingdom should succeed in keeping the king in order--which
was the utmost then intended--Aubyn Auberley might be only too glad to
fall back upon Frida.

Thinking it wiser, upon the whole, to make sure of this little lamb,
with nobler game in prospect, Lord Auberley heaved as deep a sigh as the
size of his chest could compass. After which he spoke as follows, in a
most delicious tone:

"Sweetest, and my only hope, the one star of my wanderings; although
you send me forth to battle, where my arm is needed, give me one dear
pledge that ever you will live and die my own."

This was just what Frida wanted, having trust (as our free-traders, by
vast amplitude of vision, have in reciprocity) that if a man gets the
best of a woman he is sure to give it back. Therefore these two sealed
and delivered certain treaties (all unwritten, but forever engraven upon
the best and ten-derest feelings of the lofty human nature) that nothing
less than death, or even greater, should divide them.

Is there one, among the many who survive such process, unable to imagine
or remember how they parted? The fierce and even desperate anguish,
nursed and made the most of; the pride and self-control that keep such
things for comfort afterward; the falling of the heart that feels
itself the true thing after all. Let it be so, since it must be; and no
sympathy can heal it, since in every case it never, never, was so bad
before!

CHAPTER V.

Lovers come, and lovers go; ecstasies of joy and anguish have their
proper intervals; and good young folk, who know no better, revel in high
misery. But the sun ascends the heavens at the same hour of the day, by
himself dictated; and if we see him not, it is our earth that spreads
the curtain. Nevertheless, these lovers, being out of rule with
everything, heap their own faults on his head, and want him to be
setting always, that they may behold the moon.

Therefore it was useless for the wisest man in the north of Devon, or
even the wisest woman, to reason with young Frida now, or even to let
her have the reason upon her side, and be sure of it. She, for her part,
was astray from all the bounds of reason, soaring on the wings of faith,
and hope, and high delusion. Though the winter-time was coming, and the
wind was damp and raw, and the beauty of the valleys lay down to recover
itself; yet with