s scarce better provided."

"In spite of my feeling I was fain to laugh at this, knowing well that
she had culled it all from little Mr. Marmaduke himself.

"All in good time," said I. "We shall have no lack of noted men
presently."

"Mere two-penny heroes," she retorted. "I know your great men, such as
Mr. Henry and Dr. Franklin and Mr. Adams."

I began pulling up the grass savagely by the roots.

"I'll lay a hundred guineas you have no regrets at leaving any of us, my
fine miss!" I cried, getting to my feet. "You would rather be a lady of
fashion than have the love of an honest man,--you who have the hearts of
too many as it is."

Her eyes lighted, but with mirth. Laughing, she chose a little bunch of
the lilies and worked them into my coat.

"Richard, you silly goose!" she said; "I dote upon seeing you in a
temper."

I stood between anger and God knows what other feelings, now starting
away, now coming back to her. But I always came back.

"You have ever said you would marry an earl, Dolly," I said sadly.
"I believe you do not care for any of us one little bit."

She turned away, so that for the moment I could not see her face, then
looked at me with exquisite archness over her shoulder. The low tones of
her voice were of a richness indescribable. 'Twas seldom she made use of
them.

"You will be coming to Oxford, Richard."

"I fear not, Dolly," I replied soberly. "I fear not, now. Mr. Carvel is
too feeble for me to leave him."

At that she turned to me, another mood coming like a gust of wind on the
Chesapeake.

"Oh, how I wish they were all like you!" she cried, with a stamp of her
foot. "Sometimes I despise gallantry. I hate the smooth compliments of
your macaronies. I thank Heaven you are big and honest and clumsy and--"

"And what, Dorothy?" I asked, bewildered.

"And stupid," said she. "Now take me back, sir."

We had not gone thirty paces before we heard a hearty bass voice singing:

"'It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, with a ho, with a hey nonino.'"

And there was Colonel Sharpe, straying along among the privet hedges.

And so the morning of her sailing came, so full of sadness for me. Why
not confess, after nigh threescore years, that break of day found me
pacing the deserted dock. At my back, across the open space, was the
irregular line of quaint, top-heavy shops since passed away, their
sightless windows barred by solid shutters of oak. The good ship
Annapo