and thank God for it. When we grow old, we grow foolish. To be young is to be happy; and to love is always to be young."

He stretched forth his legs beneath the table and fell into a moment's muse. The landlord watched him like a sleepy hound before a fire. "Ah, sir," he said, drawing in his breath, "we have some rare beauties here."

and keep straight on. There's no more path after that; you must just feel your way and jump over the ditches. 'Tis a lonely place, but fat land; you ask whose sheep are best; Fuller's will be the word."

The stranger raised his eyes to the tall clock that ticked heavily in the corner; the gilt hands pointed to nine o'clock. He rose and shook himself.

"I can but run over a name or two, and what use is that? A name is no mirror, sir; you can't see a lady's face in it."

"Let us have the names before we decide that."

"There's Margaret Vole, the squire's lass, with great dark eyes that set men sparring, so I hear."

said; "then I shall sleep like a baby. Let all your servants go to bed. My man will prepare my room; he knows my ways. Good-night, friend, and rest well." The landlord swayed before him to the door and let him forth. He already loved his guest; to drink his own best vintage warmed him to the soul.

"There's Betsy Drayton, with a pretty lump of money, so they say, but the wilfulest wench that ever turned lad's head. She loves 'em all, and cannot choose one from the lot. Lord, they crowd about her like wasps about a honey-pot."

"The name is well enough; good English, too, and winsome. In time she will learn to play a better part. Are there any more?"

"One more I think on, Susan Fuller. But she's too proud, because she's been to London, maybe, and her father has a bit o' land."

"That name," said the stranger, "is sweeter than the rest." And to his heart he said, "Her face is sweeter than the name, her dear self sweeter than them all." He went on aloud: "And where does this last lady live?"

"Down on the marsh," said the landlord; "a white house betwixt here and Hillbury."

"And how," said the other, filling the glasses once more, "would you find the way to it?"

"Go under the gate nighest the church and down the hill, till you come upon the White Road. Then turn off sharp to the right and follow the little pathway by a dyke. Then turn to the left

his laces straight and laughed. He was in the mood to appreciate; he had dined well, he had drunk comfortably and of the best, and he was in love. As he turned by the church, and set out upon the road, a few yards of which he already knew, he took the building into his confidence. It seemed to throw a salutation to him in its shadow; he nodded at its grey tower with no sense of irreverence.

A thin wisp of moon was just disappearing; in that flat land of great horizons it seemed to linger, passing with reluctance from its station above human affairs. The stars trembled in their places, and a spring wind was abroad. The Dolphin's guest walked briskly on, passed under the gate, went down the hill and found his feet upon the White Road. Then he turned to the right, struck the path by the dyke, and continued his journey without any fear of going astray. His instinct served him well, for after half an hour's devious progression he saw a light. It seemed no more than thirty yards away, but it took him almost as many minutes to reach it, by reason of the dykes he had to avoid or cross, and the entire absence of any definite pathway.

At last he stood by a low stone wall topped with a few straggling heads or

gilly-flower. The light shone from a curtained window at the end. There was not even a shadow on the blind to suggest what might be within; but it was safe to conjecture that some one was there, and he accordingly bowed to the light on the assumption that the some one was a lady. Then he worked his way cautiously round to the front of the house. There was no light here; not even an upper window sent forth the signal so sweet to lovers. He rested his hand for a moment on the gate, but did not lift the latch. "Not now," he said to himself; "her family (there is always a family) might ask too many questions. Dear child!" He continued his journey to the other side, which was black and silent as the front. Low farm-buildings stood at some short distance from the place behind, and from them came, now and again, the sound of horses moving in their stalls, the stir of cattle in their straw, or the low bleat of a ewe. It was all very peaceful and sweet; and as the stranger looked up at the star-flecked sky and back again at the house which lay near him he felt, somehow, not that he was out of place, but that he was engaged upon an enterprise for which his previous experience had given him no precedent.

He stood there for ten minutes, lost in secret contemplation of his own chances and the risk of failure. So far as failure went, he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came; it was success that was likely to make difficulties. But since he had spent all his life in happy opposition to nearly every member of his family, and loved them none the less on that account, he made light of whatever the future was likely to throw across his way. "I wonder," he thought, "whether I should call here now, or go away and come to-morrow. One never knows in these country places. Perhaps her father's there. He's a very amiable fool, and amusing, but now I don't want him to amuse me." At this point the back door opened, and a girl walked quickly across the yard to the stable. He drew himself up and took a deep, inspiriting breath. "It's Sue herself," he murmured.

"How good the gods are, and what a walk she has!"

A latch clicked and the girl came slowly back. She wore a light gown of some soft material that made no sound; a band of white about the low neck seemed to throw a touch of light up into her face. The stranger leaned forward over the wall. "Sue," he called softly. She paused, her head poised to listen, the breath stayed upon her lips. "Sue," he called again. She turned and made a step or two towards him; then paused again and listened; at the third calling of her name, she picked up her skirts and ran to meet the voice. The stranger stretched out his hands and caught her in his arms.

"Little one, Sue," he said; "kiss me," She put up her mouth to him and kissed him with her whole heart. He held her face between his hands and kissed both her eyes and then her lips again, before he could find a word. "You forgive me for coming?" he asked.

"No; I can't forgive you. It was very unwise and very wrong, Mr. Thorburn."

"Philip," he pleaded.

"Mr. Thorburn," she repeated turning her face aside.

"Sue!" he said.

"Mr. Philip Thorburn," she said slowly, "you must go away." "When may I come back?"

"You may come to-morrow,-but ask to see my brother."

"Ah," thought Mr. Thorburn, "she has a brother!" Then he said aloud: "Very well, Sue, I'll come, to see your brother. What's his name?" "Mr. John Fuller."

"Dear child, how precise you are to-night. But I forgot; down here you're people of importance. Where's your father?"

"In London."

"Mr. William Fuller is in London; good."

"Why good?" she asked.

"Because I want to make love to

you."

You mustn't," she said. "My brother would be angry."

"I'm very sorry," he said, "but if he

"Of course you do," she said; "if you hadn't I would never have kissed you." "No," he said, "I suppose you wouldn't. But I came down here to tell you how much I loved you, and to ask you to be my wife." She moved a step away from him. Before she came back the Dolphin's guest had had time to forget that there was anything else in the world but the love that had made him come to Churchsea.

"I do love you," she said, "I do love you. But to marry!" She had her arms about his neck and crooned the words softly. "I'm so young. Do you know how old I am?"

"No," he said, "I don't; but you're old enough for me."

"Eighteen," she said.

The man awoke Mr. Thorburn. He sat up and stretched himself.

"Draw the blind and open the window," he said. "Ah," he went on when this was done; "what a morning, Hyde, and what a sun!"

Hyde withdrew a little and paused again. "Some one has been asking for you, my l—, sir!”

"Who?" asked Mr. Thorburn, with one leg out of bed.

"Mr. Luttrell, sir."

The leg went back again and Mr. Thorburn's face manifested lively annoyance. "Damn Mr. Luttrell!" he cried; "tell him I'm dead!" Hyde

dow, rubbed his hands together and

The voice called again and the girl ran quickly into the house. After the closing of the door Thorburn did not linger. He picked his way carefully back to the White Road, thinking, as he went, of the sweet candor of Sue and of the awful hubbub that would rage about him when his world knew. And there was something, too, for Sue to learn; but he had no misgiving about that, since he himself would light her to the knowledge.

At half past eight o'clock the following morning Mr. Thorburn's valet went into his master's room. Mr. Thorburn was asleep. He had slept so soundly that even the jingling bustle of an arriVOL. XIV. 725

LIVING AGE.

"He'd never believe it," Hyde said. "He'd laugh at me. You know his way, sir."

"And a devilish impertinent way it is. What right has the fellow to follow me? If he won't go, order some breakfast for two and say I'll join him in half an hour. Mr. Luttrell and I, Hyde, will have a talk together."

When Mr. Thorburn came down he found Mr. Luttrell sitting on the edge of the table, playing with his sword-hilt. A grey cat watched him from the window-seat.

"This visit is unexpected," Mr. Thor

burn said after they had greeted one another.

"And you would doubtless add, unwarranted, my lord."

"That depends upon the reason for it."

"The reason is to beg you to think twice before it is too late."

"My dear Luttrell, I have thought fifty times and the way is clear before me."

"Have you considered your family?" "I answer with another question; has my family ever considered me?" "If I may say so, the Earl of Templemore should act on higher grounds."

"I beg you to remember that here I am not the Earl of Templemore. I am plain Philip Thorburn; the title is in abeyance."

"I rejoice to hear it, my lord."

life to set up for moralist. But here rings the true coin. This is not one of those. I take my name of Thorburn because she knows me by no other." "And when she learns the other, Philip, what then?"

"That is what I propose to discover, I remember, Luttrell, that she is a woman, perhaps hardly more than a child. If she loves me the name will make no difference. We people have a habit of holding ourselves too dear, My name is an accident; it is I, I who am everything. My name does not make love, my name does not fight, my name does not play the villain; I do these things. As for my family, well, they are my family and will hold by me. Besides, I propose to bring new, clean blood into a somewhat wasted stock; they will be my debtors. Go back to

"Because I gather from it that your errand is less serious than I had imagined."

"Explain please. Our breakfast waits; before we eat let us understand each other."

Luttrell slipped from the table and stood with folded arms against the wall. The Earl of Templemore regarded him with amused interest; "Come," he said, "speak out, cousin."

"Your lordship is good enough to remind me that we have a touch of the same blood."

"Tut, man, leave my lording alone. Give me the name you knew me by before this unsought honor put a mask on all my friends. Call me Philip and be done with it."

"You may remember, then, that in those far off days we sometimes changed our names for safety's sake. It was then that ladies wore the masks."

Templemore's face darkened; but as he paced the room it cleared again. "You remind me," he said, "of what one would willingly forget. We must all be young once, Luttrell; we must all play the fool and truant once, nay, a score of times, and be none the worse for it. I do not propose at my time of

you this is a charming country and will repay any time you like to spend upon the road. Or better still, stay here as my guest and take a lesson from my wisdom."

"I will be your guest to the extent of breakfast. Afterwards, if you still hold to your purpose and refuse to return with me I must go alone." "I shall certainly refuse."

They sat in silence for some time, Templemore without a shadow of em, barrassment, the other watchfully, like a chicken or a cat. Luttrell spoke first. "Since you are determined to go. through with this very doubtful affair, Philip, how is it that the lady knows. only half your name?"

"Because I met her under unusual circumstances; mainly because her father, like most of the world, is some. thing of a fool." Luttrell nodded acquiescence. Templemore smiled and went on: "I have a habit, as you know, of wandering into strange places and stranger company. There are certain societies which presume to sympathize with the bloody-minded villains who are murdering Frenchmen, and women too, in the name of France. To one of these societies I had an easy entrance, of course under the name of Thorburn, And there one evening I found old Ful

ler and his daughter, he nodding with wine and treason, she alternately frightened and ashamed. Why the foolish fellow took her there I don't pretend to guess. I often went to these meetings, not to agree with the sentiments expressed there, but to express my own sentiments to the one jewel set in that showy and harmless fustian."

"Did you not consider it your duty," asked Luttrell, "to your order and the king to have these revolutionaries suppressed?"

"Why suppress flies? They only buzz. My duty lay in the direction of my pleasure, my honest pleasure. That is why I am here. Let me give you this wing or a little of that cold pastyleveret, I think. No? I cannot press you to remain because, as you see, my occupation gives me companionship enough. My respects to my family; they are really too solicitous. When I return to town you shall hear of me."

Luttrell being thus happily dismissed, the Earl of Templemore spent an hour in contemplative idleness. But as he was pleasantly engaged in dwelling upon the last turn of fortune, all Churchsea was being made free of the secret of his name; for the girl who waited on him had not thought it unmannerly to listen at the door, and she fled from that post with the name of the Earl of Templemore filling her pretty mouth and silly head. She blurted it out to every soul she saw, and by noon the truth had reached as far as Fuller's farm, being carried there by Fuller's head shepherd, who had called at the Dolphin for his morning ale.

Early in the afternoon Templemore set out to call upon Sue's brother, that Mr. John Fuller whose voice he had heard the night before. He did not notice the added deference of the landlord who met him in the porch; he did not observe the inquiring heads that popped out of doorways after he had passed. As a matter of fact Churchsea was doing itself honor on his account, for it is a place apt to glory in itself and in any accidental circumstance that may be made to serve as a spur to pride. The great pasture-lands were vivid

with spring; the White Road cut them like a strip of ribbon on a green cloth; the blue line of the sea glittered beyond the high natural break-water of heavy pebbles. Templemore descended into the plain and made his way without a single misjudgment of the route to the gate of Fuller's farm. He waited there for a moment hoping to see Sue's face, or at least the flutter of her gown. But he saw nothing and heard only the bleating and stir of innumerable sheep. He lifted the latch, entered and knocked briskly at the door.

He was again disappointed, for he had expected Sue to open to him. A red-cheeked country maid, in a blush of excitement, ushered him, with many bobbing curtseys, into a parlor on the right. There she left him with a final bob.

Templemore looked about him with reverence. This was the room which so often held Sue. Indeed, some of her work was stretched upon an embroidery frame, and near it was a low chair,-Sue's chair. He sat down in it, and felt himself instantly exalted. The room was heavily furnished with old mahogany, almost black. Upon a sideboard shone a few silver cups and tankards; above it hung two crossed swords. The window-ledge was closely packed with flowers, which served to give sweetness and an intangible air of purity to the place. The grate was fireless, filled with dry rushes, which rustled to the tune of the wind in the chimney. Templemore had hardly completed his survey of the room when the door opened and John Fuller stood before him. He bowed stiffly; the earl swept him a profound reverence.

"You do us too much honor, my lord," Fuller said, not moving from where he stood. He fumbled awkwardly with his hands, and his color was high and defiant.

"How, my lord?" said Templemore, for an instant, but for an instant only, pricked in his composure.

"Down here we are not ashamed of our names."

Templemore smiled and offered his