king of such
a thing. She was so very good and quiet, and careful of the linen, and
clever about the cookery and fowls and bacon-curing, that people used
to laugh, and say she would never look at a bachelor until her mother
ordered her. But I (perhaps from my own condition and the sense of what
it was) felt no certainty about this, and even had another opinion, as
was said before.

Often I was much inclined to speak to her about it, and put her on her
guard against the approaches of Tom Faggus; but I could not find how to
begin, and feared to make a breach between us; knowing that if her
mind was set, no words of mine would alter it; although they needs must
grieve her deeply. Moreover, I felt that, in this case, a certain
homely Devonshire proverb would come home to me; that one, I mean, which
records that the crock was calling the kettle smutty. Not, of course,
that I compared my innocent maid to a highwayman; but that Annie might
think her worse, and would be too apt to do so, if indeed she loved Tom
Faggus. And our Cousin Tom, by this time, was living a quiet and godly
life; having retired almost from the trade (except when he needed
excitement, or came across public officers), and having won the esteem
of all whose purses were in his power.

Perhaps it is needless for me to say that all this time while my month
was running--or rather crawling, for never month went so slow as
that with me--neither weed, nor seed, nor cattle, nor my own mother's
anxiety, nor any care for my sister, kept me from looking once every
day, and even twice on a Sunday, for any sign of Lorna. For my heart was
ever weary; in the budding valleys, and by the crystal waters, looking
at the lambs in fold, or the heifers on the mill, labouring in trickled
furrows, or among the beaded blades; halting fresh to see the sun lift
over the golden-vapoured ridge; or doffing hat, from sweat of brow, to
watch him sink in the low gray sea; be it as it would of day, of work,
or night, or slumber, it was a weary heart I bore, and fear was on the
brink of it.

All the beauty of the spring went for happy men to think of; all the
increase of the year was for other eyes to mark. Not a sign of any
sunrise for me from my fount of life, not a breath to stir the dead
leaves fallen on my heart's Spring.

CHAPTER XXIII

A ROYAL INVITATION

[Illustration: 185.jpg Illustrated Capital]

Although I had, for the most part, so very stout an appetite, that none