ore.'

'You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at least, I can answer; though
I know not what your name is.'

'And my father--your father--what I mean is--'

'Your father and mine never met one another. Your father was killed by
an accident in the Pyrenean mountains, and your mother by the Doones; or
at least they caused her death, and carried you away from her.'

All this, coming as in one breath upon the sensitive maiden, was more
than she could bear all at once; as any but a fool like me must of
course have known. She lay back on the garden bench, with her black hair
shed on the oaken bark, while her colour went and came and only by that,
and her quivering breath, could any one say that she lived and thought.
And yet she pressed my hand with hers, that I might tell her all of it.

CHAPTER LVI

JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR

No flower that I have ever seen, either in shifting of light and shade,
or in the pearly morning, may vie with a fair young woman's face when
tender thought and quick emotion vary, enrich, and beautify it. Thus my
Lorna hearkened softly, almost without word or gesture, yet with sighs
and glances telling, and the pressure of my hand, how each word was
moving her.

When at last my tale was done, she turned away, and wept bitterly for
the sad fate of her parents. But to my surprise she spoke not even a
word of wrath or rancour. She seemed to take it all as fate.

'Lorna, darling,' I said at length, for men are more impatient in trials
of time than women are, 'do you not even wish to know what your proper
name is?'

'How can it matter to me, John?' she answered, with a depth of grief
which made me seem a trifler. 'It can never matter now, when there are
none to share it.'

'Poor little soul!' was all I said in a tone of purest pity; and to my
surprise she turned upon me, caught me in her arms, and loved me as she
had never done before.

'Dearest, I have you,' she cried; 'you, and only you, love. Having you I
want no other. All my life is one with yours. Oh, John, how can I treat
you so?'

Blushing through the wet of weeping, and the gloom of pondering, yet she
would not hide her eyes, but folded me, and dwelled on me.

'I cannot believe,' in the pride of my joy, I whispered into one little
ear, 'that you could ever so love me, beauty, as to give up the world
for me.'

'Would you give up your farm for me, John?' cried Lorna, leaping back
and looking, with her wondrous power of ligh