her cheeks.

"Oh! not any more, not any more," she cried. "I can't bear it."

"Hush," I said, taking her hands strongly in mine. "I've played the
fool; so have you. We must play the man now. The people in the village
have seen the lights--that's all. They think we're burglars. They can't
get in. Keep quiet, and they'll go away."

But when they did go away they left the local constable on guard. He
kept guard like a man till daylight began to creep over the hill, and
then he crawled into the hayloft and fell asleep, small blame to him.

But through those long hours I sat beside her and held her hand. At
first she clung to me as a frightened child clings, and her tears were
the prettiest, saddest things to see. As we grew calmer we talked.

"I did it to frighten my cousin," I owned. "I meant to have told you
to-day, I mean yesterday, only you went away. I am Lawrence Sefton, and
the place is to go either to me or to my cousin Selwyn. And I wanted to
frighten him off it. But you, why did you----?"

Even then I couldn't see. She looked at me.

"I don't know how I ever could have thought I was brave enough to do it,
but I did want the house so, and I wanted to frighten you----"

"To frighten _me_. Why?"

"Because I am your cousin Selwyn," she said, hiding her face in her
hands.

"And you knew me?" I asked.

"By your ring," she said. "I saw your father wear it when I was a little
girl. Can't we get back to the inn now?"

"Not unless you want every one to know how silly we have been."

"I wish you'd forgive me," she said when we had talked awhile, and she
had even laughed at the description of the pallid young man on whom I
had bestowed, in my mind, her name.

"The wrong is mutual," I said; "we will exchange forgivenesses."

"Oh, but it isn't," she said eagerly. "Because I knew it was you, and
you didn't know it was me: you wouldn't have tried to frighten _me_."

"You know I wouldn't." My voice was tenderer than I meant it to be.

She was silent.

"And who is to have the house?" she said.

"Why you, of course."

"I never will."

"Why?"

"Oh, because!"

"Can't we put off the decision?" I asked.

"Impossible. We must decide to-morrow--to-day I mean."

"Well, when we meet to-morrow--I mean to-day--with lawyers and chaperones
and mothers and relations, give me one word alone with you."

"Yes," she answered, with docility.

* * * * *

"Do you know," she said prese