e girl
to treat him lightly as she had done the other.

"I have noticed him here several times lately."

"Yes. He is head foreman, you know, at the big quarry."

"Oh, indeed. He is fond of your society, Miss Foster. I can't blame him
for that, can I, since I am equally so myself. But I should like to come
to some understanding with you. You cannot have misunderstood what my
feelings are to you? I am in a position to offer you a comfortable home.
Will you be my wife, Miss Foster?"

Dolly would have liked to make some jesting reply, but it was hard to be
funny with those two eager, fiery eyes fixed so intently upon her own.
She began to walk slowly towards the house, while he paced along beside
her, still waiting for his answer.

"You must give me a little time, Mr. Mason," she said at last. "'Marry
in haste,' they say, 'and repent at leisure.'"

"But you shall never have cause to repent."

"I don't know. One hears such things."

"You shall be the happiest woman in England."

"That sounds very nice. You are a poet, Mr. Mason, are you not?"

"I am a lover of poetry."

"And poets are fond of flowers?"

"I am very fond of flowers."

"Then perhaps you know something of these?" She took out the humble
little sprig, and held it out to him with an arch questioning glance. He
took it and pressed it to his lips.

"I know that it has been near you, where I should wish to be," said he.

"Good evening, Mr. Mason!" It was Mrs. Foster who had come out to meet
them. "Where's Mr.----? Oh--ah! Yes, of course. The teapot's on the
table, and you'd best come in afore it's over-drawn."

When Elias Mason left the farmhouse that evening, he drew Dolly aside at
the door.

"I won't be able to come before Saturday," said he.

"We shall be glad to see you, Mr. Mason."

"I shall want my answer then."

"Oh, I cannot give any promise, you know."

"But I shall live in hope."

"Well, no one can prevent you from doing that." As she came to realize
her power over him she had lost something of her fear, and could answer
him now nearly as freely as if he were simple Adam Wilson.

She stood at the door, leaning against the wooden porch, with the long
trailers of the honeysuckle framing her tall, slight figure. The great
red sun was low in the west, its upper rim peeping over the low hills,
shooting long, dark shadows from the beech-tree in the field, from the
little group of tawny cows, and from the man who walked away from her.