ining it with his bright eyes. "It's the
prettiest thing I ever saw. These letters must have stood for something.
Clarice,"--he hesitated a moment,--"Clarice, they might stand for
something yet, _Heart and Hand_. Here they are,--take them,--they're
yours,--my heart and my hand,--till Death comes between!"

"Don't talk that way, Luke," answered the girl, gravely. "Your father is
waiting for you, I'm sure."

But Luke did not believe that she was in such haste to be rid of him.

"He hasn't gone down yet. I've watched," said he. "He'd be willing to
wait, if he knew what I was saying. Besides, if you are in a hurry, it
won't take but a minute to say yes, Clarice. Will you take my heart and
my hand? Here is your ring."

Clarice took the ring and looked away; but, in looking away, her eyes
fell on Luke, and she smiled.

"It's the prettiest thing, that ring is, in the world, except you,
Clarice,"--so the smile made him speak.

"That's new for me," said the girl. "Talk sense, Luke."

"Handsome is that handsome does, say I. And if you a'n't the best
girl in the Bay, Clary, who is, then? When are you going to say yes?"
demanded the young fellow.

"Now," replied Clarice, suddenly.

"Have you taken my heart and hand?" asked the lad as quickly, his face
glowing with delight.

"Yes."

"To keep forever, Clarice?" It seemed, after all, incredible.

"Yes, Luke." And so speaking, the girl meant _yes, forever_.

Now this promise had not really taken either of these children by
surprise. They had long understood each other. But when they had given
a mutual promise, both looked grave. Clarice stood by the water's edge,
careless that time was passing. Luke was in no hurry for his father.

But at length a shrill voice called the girl. Dame Briton stood in the
cabin door, and her angry tongue was laden with reproaches ready for
utterance when Clarice should come within easier reach of her voice.

"I must go," said Clarice to Luke.

"I'll follow you, to-night. Don't work too hard," he answered. "Take
care of my heart, Clarice."

A storm broke upon Clarice when she went home to her mother. She bore
the blame of her idleness with tolerable patience, until it seemed as if
the gale would never blow over. At last some quick words escaped her:--

"Three bushels of weed lie there on the boards ready spread, and drying.
I gathered them before another creature was stirring in Diver's Bay."
Then she added, more gently, "I found somet