after all; and yet she looked like a Spanish
princess.

"You do not look like an English girl," he said, gravely.

"My father was English and my mother a Spanish lady; and I--well, I fear
I have more of the hot fire of Spain than of the chill of England in my
nature; my face is Spanish, so is my heart."

"A Spaniard is quick to love, quick to hate; forgives grandly and
revenges mercilessly," he said.

"That is my character," she said; "you have described it exactly."

"I do not believe it; neither hate nor revenge could exist with a face
like yours. Then your name is Noel?"

"Yes, my name is Leone Noel," she replied.

"Leone," he repeated, "that is a beautiful name. I have never heard it
before; but I like it very much; it is musical and rare--two great
things in a name."

"It is a German name," she said. "My uncle Robert hates it; he says it
reminds him of Lion; but you know it is pronounced Leon. My mother read
some German story that had the name in it and gave it to me."

"It suits you," he said, simply; "and I should not think there was
another name in the world that would. I wonder," he added, with a shy
laugh, "if you would like my name? It is Lancelot Chandos. My friends
call me Lance."

"Yes, I like that. I know all the history of Sir Lancelot. I admire him;
but I think he was a weak man--do not you?"

"For loving Queen Guinevere? I do not know. Some love is strength, not
weakness," he replied.

Leone looked up at him again.

"Are you the son of a great lord?" she asked; "some one told me so."

"Yes; my father is Earl of Lanswell; and people would call him a great
earl. He is rich and powerful."

"What has brought you, the son of a great earl, down to Rashleigh?" she
asked.

"My own idleness, to begin with," he said. "I have been at Oxford more
years than I care to count; and I have idled my time."

"Then you are studying?" she said.

"Yes, that is it. I am trying to make up for lost time. I have some
examinations to pass; and my father has sent me down to Dr. Hervey
because he is known everywhere as the cleverest coach in England."

A cloud came for just one half minute across the face of the moon; the
soft, sweet darkness startled Leone.

"I must go now," she said; "it is not only getting late, but growing
dark."

"I shall see you again," he cried, "do promise me."

"Nay, you have little faith in promises," she replied; and he watched
her as she vanished from among the alder-trees