hristmas."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Martin. And stepping into the malthouse he
offered Robin six keys.

"How will these help us?" said Robin Rue.

"They are the keys of your lady's Well-House," said Martin Pippin, "and
how I have outpaced her I cannot imagine, for she was on the road to
you twenty hours ago."

"This is no news," said Robin. "There she is."

And he turned his face to the dark of the malthouse, and there, sitting
on a barrel, with a slice of the sunset falling through a slit on her
corn-colored hair, was Gillian.

"In love's name," cried Martin Pippin, putting his hands to his head,
"what more do you want?"

"A husband worthy of her," moaned Robin Rue, "and how can I suppose
that I am he? Oh, that I were only good enough for her! oh, that she
could be happily mated, as after all her sorrows she deserves to be!"

Then Martin looked down at the patch on his shoe saying, "And tell me
now, if you knew Gillian happily wed, would you ask nothing more of
life?"

"Oh, sir," cried Robin Rue, "if I knew any man who could give her all I
cannot, I would contrive at least to live long enough to drown my
sorrows in the beer brewed from this barley."

"It is a solace," said Martin, "that must be denied to no man. It seems
that I must help you out to the last. And if you will take one glance
out of doors, you will see that the working-day is over."

Robin Rue looked out of doors, saw by the sun that it was so, put down
his spade, and went home to supper.

"Gillian," said Martin Pippin, "the Squire did not come himself to
fetch her away because he was a young fool. There was no eighth floret
on the grass-blade, so the rime stayed at the seventh. The letter I
threw with the Lady-peel was a G. There are apples all round your
silver ring because it was once my ring. I do, you dear, I do, I do.
And now I have answered your many questions, answer me one. Why did you
sit six months in the Well-House weeping for love?"

"Oh, Martin," said Gillian softly, "could you tell my friends so much
they did not know, and not know this?--girls do not weep for love, they
weep for want of it." And she lifted her heavenly eyes, and out of the
last of the sunlight looked at him without thinking. And Martin, like a
drowning man catching at straws, caught her corn-colored plaits one in
either hand, and drawing himself to her by them, whispered, "Do girls
do that? But they are so much too good for us, Gillian."

"I know the