hted every good-natured
observer; and all the villagers allowed that Margaret Ellis deserved
the tiara of flowers that crowned her Queen of the May. She blushed at
the tokens of good will and approbation, as she placed her hand in
that of a young and rustic stranger, who led her off triumphantly at
the head of the dancers. The youth was fair-haired, ruddy, athletic,
and active; and those who saw them in the dance could not help
acknowledging that they were a lovely pair.

There was one who regarded them with eyes of jealous displeasure. This
was a man of forty, of a handsome face and figure, but swarthy,
dark-haired, and melancholy. He bent over the seat upon which old
Farmer Ellis and his dame were seated, and whispered, "Do you know the
young man who is dancing with your daughter?"

"Ah! he be a right good young mon, I warrant me," said the dame. "He
do come fra the next county. William Evans, he calls himself."

"He calls himself!--umph!" muttered the person who had first spoken.
"But what do others call him? Who knows any thing about him? Who can
vouch for his character? I would not suffer a daughter of mine to be
gadding about, and dancing with a stranger."

"Whoy, for the matter o' that," said Farmer Ellis, "you were nought
but a stranger yourself, when you first did come to see us, Maister
Pembroke. We didn't know you were the sexton of St. Hubert's. And yet
you turned out a right good friend to me, mon; for when ye first knew
me, things were deadly cross wi' me. What wi' the rot among my sheep,
and the murrain among my cattle, I were all but ruined. Short crops
and a hard landlord are bitter bad things. But you were the salvation
of me, and I'll work my fingers to the bone, but what you shall have
your own again, John Pembroke."

"There is one way in which you can liquidate your debt."

"Name it, Maister Pembroke," said the farmer, eagerly.

"No matter," muttered the sexton, and a hollow sigh escaped his lips.
"I had an idea, but it is gone. Touching the stranger, in whom you
both repose such confidence. In what manner does he earn his daily
bread?"

"Whoy," said the farmer, "in the way that Adam did, mon. He do say he
is a gardener."

"A likely tale!" ejaculated the sexton. "Look at his hands. Why, his
fingers are delicate and white. Your gardener has horny fingers, and a
palm of iron."

"Dang it! so they be!" cried Ellis. "Well, I never noticed that afore.
Whoy, dame, he may be an impostor And tho