too great love for you; I doubt a little these mighty professions. My love makes my eyes like lynx's eyes, to see through all who work thee harm.'

'Then they have proved too keen. Adam Sinclair would cut off his right hand for me. I say not for love; he comes not of a loving kind, and men o' the world deal not in such stuff one towards another; but because in former years I saved him from a worse trouble than ever I have known. There; it is gratitude that binds this man to me, and he has shewn it.'

'Ah! Then I will thrust away this distrust that is not worthy of me. I never knew the heart that was not grateful for great service done. And what is more, I'll ne'er believe in ingratitude. Dear Adam Sinclair! Good old man! Grateful, grim, old, true friend of my father, I will strive to forget that you have ever wished to wed me; so I may grow to like you as a friend.'

Sir Vincent laughed. 'And this is hard? What dost like? Whom dost like, Deb? Of all the brave fellows thou seest in the hunting-field, whom couldst thou choose?'

'Faith, father, I can see no "brave fellow" there but the poor gallant one streaming along in the bushy-tailed red-brown coat!'

'Sir Reynard? Ha, ha! Thou'rt thy father's true daughter. But not one beside Master Fox?'

'Not one.'

'I am glad on't. They are all rattle-pates or penniless. I wish to give thee to better folk.'

'Hark to him! Thou ambitious old dear! Well-a-day, I am in no haste to wed. As Deborah Fleming, I am happy. Oh, that I might never change that name!'

'Pshaw! Thou'lt not say this always; but unless with thy full and free consent, Deborah Fleming thou shalt remain.'

'This is the gipsy prophecy,' said Deborah, as she went up the great oak stairs. 'The grand old man who would meet me at the gates of my own home.' Then in her own room, musing: 'But "love and greatness should come hand in hand." God forbid that I ever love ye, Adam Sinclair! Unless some false witch should blind my eyes with "love in idleness," I never will. Oh, keep me from it, kind Providence! If ever so deluded and deceived, I would wake up to misery! If I saw father starving, would I? No; for in so doing, I would kill both my body and soul. I wonder, will King Fleming ever return? I had well nigh forgot him. And he will be for wedding Mistress Blancheflower. Why she must be getting old. Ah, well-a-day, we all grow old.'

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

It was about this time that a distant kinswoman of Deborah's died, leaving her a legacy of twenty guineas a year. It seemed a fortune to Mistress Fleming. With the twenty golden pieces in her hand, she sat revolving in her mind what she would buy with them, happy as the blue fly that buzzed about her sunny room, she who had so often looked on grim poverty face to face. Our heroine was full of joy. The bells of Enderby were ringing out their glad gay peals. The air was radiant with sunshine, and heavy with fragrance. Kingston Fleming was coming home, and coming to Enderby. The murmur of the bees about the ivy, the scent of clambering roses and honeysuckle, brought back the days of childhood. There, were the great boughs in the wych-elm where they swung; there, were the green woods where they played.

Deborah, with her arm leaning on the warm sill, was in a very dream of bliss, and then her wandering thoughts came back. Yes, half must be laid by in case of need, or as much as could possibly be spared; she would say half. Then there must be a new cap for Marjory, a book for Mistress Dinnage—a tale of love and romance; a hunting-knife for Jordan. And what for dear old Charlie? She must think that over. It was difficult to know what could be nice enough for one so fastidious and so dear. And what for herself? A new cap to match the lace she had; for she was no longer a hoyden with tangled locks, but 'Mistress Fleming.' She would ride into Granta the next day, and buy that little cap. Drawing the curtain which shut out the alcove, the maiden threw her money on the bed, and there too was laid a soft and sheeny dress, trimmed with costly cobweb lace, a dress of her grandmother's modernised artfully by herself and Mistress Dinnage. Deborah's heart beat and her colour rose. Girls are silly beings. She could think of and pine for nought but that coquettish cap which would jauntily set her love-locks.

While thus musing, the door opened abruptly, and in stalked a travel-stained figure, a tall figure, with wild dishevelled hair. It was Charlie Fleming, with the passions of his boyhood darkened and deepened, in the sombre beauty of the face that had grown stern and set. He was pale through his bronze; his long hair streamed back from his heated brow, and his whole air betokened a reckless fugitive spirit. Deborah had not seen him for weeks; she gave a cry of joy, and sprang into his arms. The roughness of the boy had passed from Charlie Fleming, but his rare demonstrations of affection were shewn to Deborah only. 'I am only here for half an hour, Deb. I must saddle horse afresh and off to Lincoln Castle. I am in rare trouble, Deb. Hush, child! I am come to thank ye for refusing Adam Sinclair. Better poverty, Deb, than that. Better starvation. I'd blow his brains out sooner than see you his wife. See that ye are never talked into this. I know your generous madness, child; let no misery move ye to it.'

'Nay, Charlie; it never shall! But if you are so averse to him, do not go to Lincoln. I hate him. I distrust him more and more. You are pale and tired too, Charlie. Is it the old trouble?' Deborah leaned forward, where she sat opposite him; the sweet confidante of father and brother was wont to forget all her own joys and sorrows in theirs.

Charlie raised his dark beautiful eyes to hers, then dropped them; the furtive glance was enough. Deborah thought of her gold, and her heart began to throb with tumultuous joy. 'Is it much, Charlie? More than—twenty guineas?'

Charlie laughed a bitter laugh. 'Don't ask me, child,' he said; 'you cannot help me, Deb. I am undone!'

'Not so undone but that I can help you a little,' whispered Deborah softly, and ran towards the bed. Then she drew Charlie's hands down from his moody face, and with her own all radiant, laid her treasure in his hands. 'See, Charlie! This is mine, my very own. I have never had such riches before. Just before you came in, dear boy, I was racking my brains as to what I could buy you with these guineas, and now I give them all to you in place of presents. Don't thank me; it is thanks enough to let me stand thy friend. For what need have I for money? To me it would be worthless!'

'Who gave ye this, Deb?'

'A fairy—a true fairy, who knew your need.'

'Not May Warriston?'

'May Warriston? No! What ails you?'

'Deb, I cannot rob thee, dear. Thou needst a thousand little gewgaws such as women love. Say no more o' this;' and Charlie gave her back the gold.

But Deborah was on her knees, putting her soft face up to his. 'Charlie, it will break my heart if you disdain my poor gift. I tell you again, I have no need for money—only as a temptation for finery and trinkets which it would be sin for me to wear. Old Charlie, sweet old Charlie, I will be mistress here!' And Deborah poured her gold into his pocket and closed it up. 'You will not go to Lincoln now?'

Charlie Fleming took her face between his hands; a melancholy smile fluttered about his lips; and she, so radiantly happy: 'Will you go?' she urged.

'Yes.'

'Oh, wilful, headstrong, obstinate! To this one time I give consent; but after this, you shall go no more to Lincoln, to be the companion of that bad old treacherous man. He would fain ruin us all; I know it!'

'Tush, tush! Deb. I know just how to take Adam Sinclair. And if he wrongs mine by word or deed, let him look to it!' And the young giant rose to his feet.

Deborah caught his arm. 'You are