what seeks my lady with you in London, Michael?" Cicely asked.

"I shall know when I get there, I dare say," he answered. "My lady's
secrets are mine."

Cicely sighed.

"I thought you might let us know," she said.

"What I know not myself. Some office, my lady speaks of, I am to fit
myself for."

"Ah! my son," continued his mother, "I do hope you'll not forget the
country as well as Mercy Page. Life is wild in London, they say.
Think of the poor squire."

"Think of my winsome Margaret," Maud exclaimed fiercely. "Think of her
that the squire murdered! Wild! Na, na; he'll see the light."

Cicely was the only one of the family exempt from that hatred of the
Trevethlans, which darkened the hue of the old woman's otherwise
harmless enthusiasm, and burnt sullenly in her grandson. She had not
long said her parting words, when Michael threw on his hat, shook
himself free from the detaining grasp of old Maud, and walked briskly
away in the direction of Trevethlan. About a mile from the castle, a
rugged strip of waste land skirted the edge of the cliff over the
beach, and supported a number of aged thorns, stunted and bent by the
sea-breezes. It was to this spot that Michael turned his steps. The
landscape was growing gray when he reached it, but there was yet
sufficient light to discover the object he sought. A few strides
placed him by the side of a young girl.

"Mercy," he said, in a low voice, "the first at a tryst! It is
something new."

"The days are short," replied the girl, with affected indifference: "I
should not have waited. Besides, you are going away, so one does not
care."

"Is that your farewell, Mercy?" Michael asked.

"And why not?" she said, tossing her head. "You are a fine gentleman:
going to London: to forget Mercy Page."

"Yes," answered Michael--his companion started at the word--"to forget
the Mercy of to-night, but to remember another--the Mercy of old days;
to forget her conceited and wilful, to remember her kind and winsome.
You would not wish me remember the first--would you, Mercy?"

The maiden said nothing in reply; and Sinson, encouraged by her
silence, drew her with gentle force to a seat on a bank of turf.

"Do you smell the wild thyme, Mercy?" he continued. "They call it a
figure of love, rewarding with sweetness even what bruises it. It is
so I have answered all your coldness. Mind you not the St. John's Eve,
when the folks had caught you in the rope? Who fought his way to you