ite and blue, the air fresh and sweet; the swallows had
just come, and were chattering with the starlings; hundreds of
daffodils "danced in the wind" and lighted the ground at their
feet; troops of celandines starred the brook that babbled by the
bee-skips; the southernwood, the wall-flower, the budding thyme and
sweet-brier,--a thousand exhalations filled the air and intensified
that intoxication of heart and senses which makes the first stage of
love's fever delirious.

Fenwick went away in the afternoon, and his adieus were mostly made to
the Squire. He had done his best to win his favour, and he had been
successful. He left Seat-Ambar under an engagement to return soon and
try his skill in wrestling and pole-leaping with Brune. Aspatria knew
he would return: a voice which Fenwick's voice only echoed told her
so. She watched him from her own window across the meadows, and up the
mountain, until he was lost to her vision.

She was doubtless very much in love, though as yet she had not
admitted the fact to herself. The experience had come with a really
shocking swiftness. Her heart was half angry and half abashed by its
instantaneous surrender. Two circumstances had promoted this
condition. First, the singular charm of the man. Ulfar Fenwick was
unlike any one she had ever seen. The squires and gentlemen who came
to Seat-Ambar were physically the finest fellows in England, but noble
women look for something more than mere bulk in a man. Sir Ulfar
Fenwick had this something more. Culture, travel, great experience
with women, had added to his heroic form a charm flesh and sinew alone
could never compass. And if he had lacked all other physical
advantages, he possessed eyes which had been filled to the brim with
experiences of every kind,--gray eyes with pure, full lids thickly
fringed,--eyes always lustrous, sometimes piercingly bright. Secondly,
Aspatria had no knowledge which helped her to ward off attack or
protract surrender. In a multitude of lovers there is safety; but
Fenwick was Aspatria's first lover.

He rode hard, as if he would ride from fate. Perhaps he hoped at this
early stage of feeling to do as he had often done before,--

To love--and then ride away.

He had also a fresh, pressing anxiety to see his sister, who was Lady
of Redware Manor. Seven years--and much besides years--had passed
since they met. She was his only sister, and ten years his senior. She
loved him as mothers love, unquestioningl