going on. The old man's
singing had made her a little sad. She, too, was thinking of "what love
could do." She was standing under the tree, leaning against the great
mossy trunk. Her brown hair had fallen loose, her cheeks were flushed,
her lips crimson, her whole form a glowing picture of youth in its
perfect beauty and freshness. Sophia was out of hearing. Julius stepped
close to her. His soul was in his face; he spoke like a man who was no
longer master of himself.

"Charlotte, I love you. I love you with all my heart."

She looked at him steadily. Her eyes flashed. She threw downward her
hands with a deprecating motion.

"You have no right to say such words to me, Julius. I have done all a
woman could do to prevent, them. I have never given you any
encouragement. A gentleman does not speak without it."

"I could not help speaking. I love you, Charlotte. Is there any wrong in
loving you? If I had any hope of winning you."

"No, no; there is no hope. I do not love you. I never shall love you."

"Unless you have some other lover, Charlotte, I shall dare to hope"--

"I have a lover."

"Oh!"

"And I am frank with you because it is best. I trust you will respect my
candor."

He only bowed. Indeed, he found speech impossible. Never before had
Charlotte looked so lovely and so desirable to him. He felt her positive
rejection very keenly.

"Sophia is coming. Please to forget that this conversation has ever
been."

"You are very cruel."

"No. I am truly kind. Sophia, I am tired; let us go home."

So they turned out of the field, and into the lane. But something was
gone, and something had come. Sophia felt the change, and she looked
curiously at Julius and Charlotte. Charlotte was calmly mingling the
poppies and wheat in her hands. Her face revealed nothing. Julius was a
little melancholy. "The fairies have left us," he said. "All of a
sudden, the revel is over." Then as they walked slowly homeward, he took
Sophia's hand, and swayed it gently to and fro to the old fiddler's
refrain,--

"'Little I thought what love could do.'"

CHAPTER V.

CHARLOTTE.

"Oh, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day!"

"Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,
Amygdaloid and trachyte."

When Charlotte again went to Up-Hill she found herself walking through a
sober realm of leafless trees. The glo