poetry-stuff! Here," he continued, tossing a
folded paper on the table in front of Bentley, "it seems the young
rascal's been meeting her--over the orchard wall. Read it, Bentley--read
it, and see for yourself." Obediently Bentley took up the paper and read
as here followeth:

"'Dear Heart--'"

"Bah!" snorted Jack.

"'Dear Heart!'" read Bentley again and with a certain unction:

"'DEAR HEART,

I send you these few lines, poor though they be, for since they were
inspired by my great love for thee, that of itself, methinks, should
make them more worthy,

Thine, as ever,

HORATIO.'"

"You mark that?" cries Jack, excitedly, "'hers as ever,' and 'Horatio!'
Horatio--faugh! I could ha' taken it kinder had he called himself Tom, or
Will, or George, but 'Horatio'--oh, damme! And now comes the poetry-stuff."

Hereupon Bentley hummed and ha'd, and clearing his throat, read this:

"'When drowsy night with sombre wings
O'er this world his shadow flings
And thou, dear love, doth sleep,
Then do I send my soul to thee
Thy guardian till the dawn to be
And thy sweet slumbers keep.'"

"'Slumbers keep,'" snorted Jack, "the insolence of the fellow! Now look
on t'other side."

"'I shall be in the orchard to-morrow at the usual hour, in the hope of
a word or a look from you.'"

Bentley read, and laid down the paper.

"At the usual hour--d'ye mark that!" cries Jack, thumping himself in the
chest--"'tis become a habit with 'em, it seems--and there's for ye, and
a nice kettle o' fish it is!"

"Ah, Bentley," says I, "if only your nephew, the young Viscount, were
here--"

"To the deuce with Bentley's nephew!" roars Jack. "I say he shouldn't
marry her now, no--not if he were ten thousand times Bentley's nephew,
sir--deuce take him!"

"So then," says I, "all our plans are gone astray, and she will have her
way and wed this adventurer Tawnish, I suppose?"

"No, no, Dick!" cries Jack; "curse me, am I not her father?"

"And is she not--herself?" says I.

"True!" Jack nodded, "and as stubborn as--as--"

"Her father!" added Bentley. "Why, Jack--Dick--I tell you she's ruled us
all with a rod of iron ever since she used to climb up our knees to pull
at our wigs with her little, mischievous fingers!"

"Such very small, pink fingers!" says I, sighing. "Indeed we've spoiled
her wofully betwixt us."

"Ha!