ly touched her taper fingers, lay my good friend, Master
Fred Power. An undress jacket, thrown loosely open, and a black neck-cloth,
negligently knotted, bespoke the easy _nonchalance_ with which he
prosecuted his courtship.

"Do sing it again?" said he, pressing her fingers to his lips.

What she replied, I could not catch; but Fred resumed: "No, no; he never
wakes. The infernal clatter of that mill is his lullaby."

"But your friend will be here soon," said she. "Is it not so?"

"Oh, poor Charley! I'd almost forgotten him. By-the-bye, you mustn't fall
in love with him. There now, do not look angry; I only meant that, as I
knew he'd be desperately smitten, you shouldn't let him fancy he got any
encouragement."

"What would you have me do?" said she, artlessly.

"I have been thinking over that, too. In the first place, you'd better
never let him hear you sing; scarcely ever smile; and as far as possible,
keep out of his sight."

"One would think, Senhor, that all these precautions were to be taken more
on my account than on his. Is he so very dangerous, then?"

"Not a bit of it! Good-looking enough he is, but, only a boy; at the same
time, a devilish bold one! And he'd think no more of springing through that
window and throwing his arms round your neck, the very first moment of his
arrival, than I should of whispering how much I love you."

"How very odd he must be! I'm sure I should like him."

"Many thanks to both for your kind hints; and now to take advantage of
them." So saying, I stepped lightly upon the window-sill, cleared the
miller with one spring, and before Power could recover his legs or
Margeritta her astonishment, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her on
either cheek.

"Charley! Charley! Damn it, man, it won't do!" cried Fred; while the young
lady, evidently more amused at his discomfiture than affronted at the
liberty, threw herself into a seat, and laughed immoderately.

"Ha! Hilloa there! What is't?" shouted the miller, rousing himself from his
nap, and looking eagerly round. "Are they coming? Are the French coming?"

A hearty renewal of his daughter's laughter was the only reply; while Power
relieved his anxiety by saying,--

"No, no, Pedrillo, not the French; a mere marauding party,--nothing more. I
say, Charley," continued he, in a lower tone, "you had better lose no time
in reporting yourself at headquarters. We'll walk up together. Devilish
awkward scrape, yours."

"Never fear,