ich are as yet happily unmolested by the destroying ravag

is master's retinue, and was never heard of by the great world again. Yet he was not far away. He had not the resolution to leave England, the land which enshrined the lady of his love,-and he had lost all inclination to return to France. He therefore retired into the depths of the sweet English country, among the then unspoilt forests and woodlands, and there happening to find a small manor-house for immediate sale, surrounded by a considerable quantity of land, he purchased it for the ready cash he had about him and settled down in it for the remainder of his life. Little by little, such social ambitions as he had ever possessed left him, and with every passing year he grew more and more attached to the simplicity and seclusion of his surroundings. He had leisure for the indulgence of his delight in books, and he was able to give the rein to his passion for poetry, though it is nowhere recorded that he ever published the numerous essays, sonnets and rhymed pieces which, written in the picturesque caligraphy of the period, and roughly bound by himself in sheepskin, occupied a couple of shelves in his library. He entered with animation and interest into the pleasures of farming and other agricultural pursuits, and by-and-bye as time went on and the former idol of his dreams descended from her fair estate of virtue and scandalised the world by her liaison with Lord Mountjoy, he appears to have gradually resigned the illusions of his first love, for he married a simple village girl, remarkable, so it was said, for her beauty, but more so for her skill in making butter and cheese. She could neither read nor write, however, and the traditions concerning the Sieur Amadis relate that he took a singular pleasure in teaching her these accomplishments, as well as in training her to sing and to accompany herself upon the lute in a very pretty manner. She made him an excellent wife, and gave him no less than six children, three boys and three girls, all of whom were brought up at home under the supervision of their father and mother, and encouraged to excel in country pursuits and to understand the art of profitable farming. It was in their days that Briar Farm entered upon its lon

n of events which had lately taken place in the frank and open admiration and affection displayed by Robin for his illegitimate cousin, as it was thought she was, and as Farmer Jocelyn had tacitly allowed it to be understood. If the two young people married, everybody agreed it would be the right thing, and the best possible outlook for the continued prosperity of Briar Farm. For after all, it was the farm that had to be chiefly considered, so they opined,-the farm was an historic and valuable property as well as an excellent paying concern. The great point to be attained was that it should go on as it had always gone on from the days of the Sieur Amadis,-and that it should be kept in the possession of the same family. This at any rate was known to be the cherished wish of old Hugo Jocelyn, though he was not given to any very free expression of his feelings. He

w was open to the full inflowing of the scented air, and within its embrasure sat a lonely little figure in a loose white garment with hair tumbling carelessly over its shoulders and eyes that were wet with tears. The clanging chime of the old clock below stairs had struck eleven some ten minutes since, and after the echo of its bell had died away there had followed a heavy and intense silence. The window looked not upon the garden, but out upon the fields and a suggestive line of dark foliage edging them sof

ists,-it is a human entity-a being full of potential good or evil,-and after a certain period of growth it stands alone, and its parents have less to do with it than they imagine. It makes its own circumstances and shapes its own career, and in many cases the less it is interfered with the better. But Innocent could not reason out her position in any cold-blooded or logical way. She was too young and too unhappy. Everything that she

ieur Amadis! You would be glad to see t

centuries to the love-lorn French noble who had come to England in the train of the Due d'Anjou-and now-now she knew she had no connection at all with him,-that she was an unnamed, unbaptised nobody-an unclaimed waif of humanity whom no one wanted! No one

, passionately-"Not without a name!-not till I have

t about its history,-the Sieur Amadis himself had taken care of that. For on every panel he had carved with his own hand a verse, a prayer, or an aphorism, so that the walls were a kind of open notebook inscribed with his own

s de J

t of

Forgetfulness did

ake nothing of either books or manuscripts himself, he gave over the whole collection to Innocent, saying that as they were found in her part of the house she might keep them. No one-not even Robin-knew how much she had loved and studied these old books, or how patiently she had spelt out the manuscripts; and no one could have guessed what a wide knowledge of literature she had gained or what fine taste she had developed from her silent communications with the parted spirit of the Sieur Amadis and his poetical remains. She had even arranged her room as she thought he might have liked it, in severe yet perfect taste. It was now her study as it had been his,-the heavy oak table had a great pewter inkstand upon it and a few loose sheets of paper with two or three quill pens ready to hand,-some quaint old vellum-bound volumes and a brown earthenware bowl full of "Glory" roses were set just where they could catch the morning sunshine through the lattice window. One side of the room was lined with loaded bookshelves, and at its furthest end a wide arch of roughly hewn oak disclosed a smaller apartment where she slept. Here there was a quaint little four-poster bedstead, hung with quite priceless Jacobean tapestry, and a still more rare and beautiful work of art-an early Italian mirror, full length and framed in silver, a curio worth many hundreds of pounds. In this mirror Innocent had surveyed herself with more or less disfavour since her infancy. It was a mirror that had always been there-a mirro

ly-"I have no claim on him, or on anyone

r. A little woe-begone creature gazed sorrowfully back at her from its shining surface, with brimming eyes and quivering lips, and hair all

gly-"I am not even good-looking. And Robin-poor foolish

, of course; he would be sure to marry; and there would be no place for her in his home. She would have to earn her bread; and the only way to do that would be to go out to service. She had a good store of useful domestic knowledge,-she could bake and brew, and wash and scour; she knew how to rear poultry and keep bees; she could spin and knit and embroider; indeed her list of household accomplishments would have startled any girl fresh out of a modern Government school, where things that are useful in life are frequently forgotten, and things that are not by any means necessary are taught as though they were imperative. One other accomplishment she had,-one that she hardly whispered to herself-she could write,-write what she herself called "nonsense." Scores of little poems and essays and stories were locked away in a small old bureau in a corner of the room,-confessions and expressions of pent-up feeling which, but for this outlet, would have troubled her brain and hindered her rest. They were mostly, as she frankly admitted to her own conscience, in the "style" of the Sieur Amadis, and were inspired by his poetic suggestions. She had no fond or exaggerated idea of their merit,-they were the result of solitary hours and long silences in which she had felt she must speak to someone,-exchange thoughts with someone,-or suffer an almost intolerable restraint. That "someone" was for her the long dead knight who had come to England in the train of the Duc d'Anjou. T

when they were otherwise. Screaming, spiteful, quarrelsome children were to her less interesting than barking puppies or squealing pigs;-besides, she knew she could not be an efficient teacher of so much as one accomplishment. Music, for instance; what had she learned of music? She could play on an ancient spinet which was one of the chief treasures of the "best parlour" of Briar Farm, and she could sing old ballads very sweetly and plaintively,-but of "technique" and "style" and all the latter-day methods of musical acquirement and proficiency she was absolutely ignorant. Foreign languages were a dead letter to her-except old French. She could understand that; and Villon's famous verses, "Ou sont les neiges d'antan?" were as familiar to her as Herrick's "Come, my Corinna, let us go a-maying." But, on the whol

s in or t'other out, what does it matter to me, or to any of you, so long as you can work and pay your way? The newspapers are always trying to persuade us to meddle in other folks's business;-I say, take care of your own affairs!-serve God a

magazine or looking at a picture-paper, and she would borrow these and take them up to her own room surreptitiously for an hour or so, but she was always more or less pained and puzzled by their conte

ccasion-"And how is it that they are photograph

st she could that they we

that gits them their bread and butter, and I s'pose they're bound to show 'em

sensitive mouth in

not!"

houses among the few remaining picturesque gables and tiles of an earlier period, boasted of its "advancement" some eight or ten miles away; but her "father," as she had thought him, had an insurmountable objection to what he termed "gadding abroad," and would not allow her to be seen even at the annual fair in the town, much less at the theatre. Moreover, it happened once t

n she was right to g

at's fancy rubbish! You know naught about it, dearie! On the stage indeed!

ked Innocent. "Is

beyond her usual sniff,

. "No man could be so cruel as to take away a girl from her home for his own pleasure and then lea

shaking her head again, had looked after her, dimly

reverted to this episode. She thought of the girl who had run away; and remembered that no one in the village ha

for her-yet she ran away from them with a stranger! I could never have done that! But I have no father a

er, and dropping on her knees by the open window sh

subdued accents once

-but she d

h the window fell on her bent

noc

n into the dusky green of clambering foliage, and saw a

ob

ed. "Innocent, what's the

t's nothing! Oh, Robin!-why are you he

and gnarled branch of a giant wistaria that was trained

hed with mingled interest and trepidation the gradual ascent of her lover, as, like another Romeo, he ascended the natural ladder formed by the thick rope-like twisted stems of the ancient creeper, grown sturdy with years a

vereign permission! I say, Innocent, how pretty you look! Don't be frightened!-dear, dear little girl,-you know I wouldn't tou

ray of the moon showed him her face, very pale, with a

d,-so I came out in the garden just to breathe the air and look up at your window-an

etched out her hands to

she said, in low trembling accents-"So badly

entle reverence, though to be able to draw her n

eaned closer towards him and he saw her soft eyes, wet with tears, shi

worse of me!" she an

hall I t

emerging from snowy drapery underneath-it was, to his fancy, as though a white rose-petal had been suddenly an

t he was saying, and only conscious of the thrill and ecstasy of love whi

and quivering lips, she related her plaintive little history, disclosing her unbaptised shame,-her un

ought never to have been born-but I couldn't help it, could I? And now it seems quite wrong for me to eve

arted as though some

ed-"Do not say such a

ED you!-and you-yo

away from his and

rs fell fast again-"But I am

ay. But chiefly he felt that he must try and comfort this little weeping angel, who, so far as

wn father may claim you-your own mother-such things are quite possible! You may be like the princess of a fairy-tale-rich people may come and take you away from Briar Fa

father who cared for me, he would not have forgotten-and my mother, if she were a true mother, would have tried to find me long ago! No, Robin!-I ought to hav

half in shadow and half in the mystic radiance of the moon, th

! You are like your name, innocent of all evil! Oh, Inn

a shive

you care?-NO

es that matter to me? You are someone else's child, and if we never know who that someone is, why should we vex ourselves about it? You are you!-you a

he answered, sadly-"I do not belong an

d, amazed-t

er that old knight, dead and gone more than three hundred years ago! D

d all the poems he wrote-and he seemed to be my friend! I thought I was born of his kindred-and I was proud of it-and I felt it would be my duty to live at Briar Farm always because he would wish his line quite unbroken-and I think-perhaps-yes, I think I might have married you and

es till now-and a direct heir had always inherited Briar Farm. He himself had taken a certain pride in thinking that Uncle Hugo's "love-child," as he had believed her to be, was at any rate, love-child or no, born of the Jocelyn blood-and that when he married her, as he hoped and fully purposed to do, he w

er thought, as you say, that you could or would marry me for the sake of the Sieur Amadis, you might just as well marry me now, even though the Sieur

terrup

Your Uncle Hugo has let all the village folk think I am his illegitimate child-and

hesi

ear," he answered,

be proud of him! He has not sinned,-though he has burdened me with the shame of sin! I think that is unfair,-but I must bear it somehow, and I will try to be brave. I'm glad I've told you all

er-and involuntarily he stre

my life! Surely you cannot be cruel? Do you care for me less than you care for that old knight buried under his own effigy in th

and took his h

ter and prettier than I am-and that there is no one like me!-poor Robin!-you are blind!-there are so many sweet and lovely girls, well born, with fathers and mothers to care for them-and you, with your good looks and kind ways,

, defiantly. "I came up here of my o

head sadly, sm

never blamed! It's al

fault to-nig

rtains, and left you to clamber down the wall again as fast as you clambered up! But I wanted to tell

gn of tenderness!-if he might just kiss her hand, he thought! But

d, softly. "Good-nig

t, my lit

ight was over for him, and poising himself lightly on a tough stem which was twisted strongly enough to give him adequate support and which projected some four feet above the smooth grass below, he sprang down. Scarcely had he touched the ground when a man, leaping suddenly out of a thick clump of bushes near that side of the house, caught him in a savage grip and shook him with all the fury of an

"What's the matter w

hoarsely-"And enough t

uined th

d by his antagonist, Clifford di

from the house and fight like a man! Come into the gra

h thickly, and looking like a sn

he said, scornfull

hemently-"You're more likely

moonbeams fell brightly on his athletic figu

t to do for to-night. I've shaken you like the pupp

xer and wrestler, Clifford grappled more and more closely with the bigger but clumsier man, dragging him steadily inch by inch further away from the house as they fought. More desperate, more

tered Landon-"Yo

Clifford-"You scoundrel! M

Landon, faintly-"I don't care! Get

laxed the pressure o

pologise?"

ise?-fo

olence to me

usin than I am-she's only a nameless bastard! I heard her

him down as in a vise-"Whatever you heard i

ur weight off me!"-and Landon made an abortive effor

mingled scorn and pity. Landon laughed forcedly, passing one hand across his fore

r Farm-there's the world!-that's a wide field and plenty of crops growing on it! And the men that sow those kind of crops and reap them and bring them in, are better farmers than you'll ever be! As for your girl!"-here his face darkened and

ord sprang towards him a

ife on me-you haven't. You're the master-I'm the man-and I'll play fai

trode off, walking somewhat unstead

clenched,-he was impatient with himself for having, as he thought, let Landon off too easily. He saw

erything," he decided, at last. "Tomorrow I'll see Uncle Hu

f Briar Farm, had it all its own way for the rest of the night, and as it filtered through the leafy branches of the elms and beeches which embowered the old tomb of the