lics. And I have read that their women are
beautiful and witty."

"My dear Aspatria, nothing goes with Spaniards but gravity and green
olives."

Aspatria was easily persuaded to accept Sarah's offer; she was indeed
very happy in the prospect before her. But Brune was miserable. He had
spent a rapturous summer, and it was to end without harvest, or the
promise thereof. He could not endure the prospect, and one night he
made a movement so decided that Sarah was compelled to set him back a
little.

"Were you ever in love, Mrs. Sandys?" poor Brune asked, with his heart
filling his mouth.

She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, and then slowly answered: "I
once felt myself in danger, and I fled to France. I consider it the
finest action of my life."

Aspatria felt sorry for her brother, and she said warmly: "I think no
one falls in love now. Love is out of date."

Sarah enjoyed her temper. "You are right, dear," she answered.
"Culture makes love a conscious operation. When women are all feeling,
they fall in love; when they have intellect and will, they attach
themselves only after a critical examination of the object."

Later, when they were alone, Aspatria took her friend to task for her
cruelty: "You know Brune loves you, Sarah; and you do love him. Why
make him miserable? Has he presumed too far?"

"No, indeed! He is as adoring and humble as one could wish a future
lord and master to be."

"Well, then?"

"I will give our love time to grow. When we come back, if Brune has
been true to me in every way, he may fall to blessing himself with
both hands;" and then she began to sing,--

"Betide, betide, whatever betide,
Love shall be Lord of Sandy-Side!"

"Love is a burden two hearts carry very easily together, but, oh,
Sarah! I know how hard it is to bear it alone. Therefore I say, be
kind to Brune while you can."

"My dear, your idea is a very pretty one. I read the other day a Hindu
version of it that smelled charmingly of the soil,--

'A clapping is not made with one hand alone:
Your love, my beloved, must answer my own.'"

But in spite of such reflections, Sarah's will and intellect were
predominant, and she left poor Brune with only such hope as he could
glean from the lingering pressure of her hand and the tears in her
eyes. Aspatria's pleading had done no good. Perhaps it had done harm;
for the very nature of love is that it should be spontaneous.

CHAPTER VII.

"A ROSE OF A HUND