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This is a story about a young boy named Robin Hood. Robin
Hood was a very famous thief, but he was not a thief from his
childhood. This story tells us how and why Robin Hood became
a thief. Let us read the story and find out.

Once upon a time, a man called Robin Hood stayed in the

Sherwood forest. The people called him, ‘The Prince of
Thieves’.
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words, and raged on without considering the harm she was doing.
The belief Meg had in Dan enraged her, and she was determined to
blacken his character in the girl's eyes, so that any tenderness Meg
might have towards him should be crushed in its infancy.

"Why did I do that?" she cried, with rapid speech. "Because his offer
was an insult. He said that he loved you; in every action he has
shown that he loved you. Fool that you are, do you think a man
would stay in this place for weeks and weeks had he not been
influenced by your presence? He was in love with me also--the base,
dishonourable villain!"

"If so, why did he ask you to be his wife?" said Meg, calmly, though
her heart was beating wildly.

"Because he is a base and dishonourable man. He loved you for your

looks, child, but he wished to marry me for my money."

"No, no!"

"I tell you it is true," resumed Miss Linisfarne, vehemently. "Why

should I, who have been a mother to you, tell a falsehood? This man
has insulted us both. Now that I have repelled him he will come to
you with loving words, and you--what will you say?"

"If he has done what you say, I shall treat him with scorn."

"Do you not believe me?"

"No, Miss Linisfarne, I do not," replied Meg, facing round with great
indignation. "I do not believe your story. If Dan proposed to you he
does not love me. If he loves me as you say, he did not propose to
you. I shall know the truth from his own lips."

"Will you ask him?" demanded Miss Linisfarne, rather alarmed at the
turn affairs had taken.
"Of course I shall ask him. And, what is more, I shall believe his
answer."

"You love him, girl--you love him!"

"I do. Until you spoke I only felt like a sister to him, but now you
have put his conduct in a new light, and I feel what I never felt
before. I do love him, and on his answer shall depend the happiness
or the misery of my life."

Thus Miss Linisfarne, by her jealousy, had brought about the very
catastrophe she desired to avoid. She recognized that her wiles were
worse than useless before the honest character of the girl, and
silently admitted that she was again beaten. She had failed with
Dan, now she failed with Meg. Only retreat remained.

"You fool!" she said cruelly. "Ask him, and believe his lies. Your
misery dates from that moment."

She swept from the room with a haughty carriage, and left Meg
bewildered and afraid.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CUPID IN ARCADY.

When Dan explained to Jarner the equivocal position in which he

was placed by the folly of Miss Linisfarne, the vicar urged him to end
all mysteries by declaring his name and rank. Also to ask Meg to be
his wife, and thus ascertain, beyond all question, the state of her
feelings. Miss Linisfarne's story of an engagement to Byrne of
Silkstone was scouted by Jarner with much wrath.

"What can the woman be thinking of?" he said. "The whole story is
false--there is not even a man in Silkstone called Byrne. She must
have known that you would tell me this, and that I would be able to
deny it."

"No doubt she thought that, in the revulsion of feeling caused by her
false word, I would ask her to marry me."

"Very probably. I do not so much blame as pity her. The poor woman
suffers from hysteria. When she comes to her senses she will be
sorry enough for her behaviour."

"I don't know so much about that, sir. Remember, she is a woman
with a past. A woman with a past is capable of anything in the
present."

"Ay, but we know nothing of her past. She may be more sinned
against than sinning."

"Merle--or, to use his real name, Mallard--does not seem to think

so."

"A poor creature that, my lord. A man who would sink, as he has
done, because a woman chose to jilt him, is a miserable specimen of
humanity. I should like to know his story."

"So should I, and the story of Miss Linisfarne and of Tinker Tim."

"The last-named person can gratify your curiosity," said Jarner. "Take
my advice, and declare yourself. Then ask Meg to be your wife, and,
when all is accomplished, Tim will tell his story. I agree with you that
there is a mystery, but Tim holds the key thereto."
"Perhaps Meg won't accept me as her husband."

"Try," said the vicar, significantly, and pushed the young man out of
the room.

This action sounds inhospitable; but the hour was late and the vicar
weary, so he thus hinted strongly his wish to be alone. Dan, in
nowise offended, for he was used to the vicar's blunt speech and
blunt ways, accepted the hint in its true spirit, and returned to his
camp.

There was but little sleep for him that night. His thoughts were
principally taken up with the curious fulfilment of the prophecy of
Mother Jericho. Much as he despised superstition and ridiculed
palmistry, he could not but admit that the sibyl had forecast the
future with remarkable accuracy. She had predicted that he would
meet his fate at the Gates of Dawn, and there he had seen Meg,
whom he now designed to make his wife. The assertion that he
would love one woman, and be loved by another whom he would
dislike, had been fulfilled to the letter by the declaration of Miss
Linisfarne. She had yellow hair streaked with grey, and hence Mother
Jericho's warning to beware of gold and silver. So far all had
occurred exactly as she foretold; but there was more to come. Miss
Linisfarne was to seek to hurt him through Meg, and there was fire
and flame and brave deeds. Also a false father, and a false mother.
These yet unfulfilled events were a source of great perplexity to him,
and he determined to nullify at least the first by at once declaring his
passion to Meg. When they understood one another, he hoped that
Miss Linisfarne would be powerless to harm him through his
promised wife. But all this depended on the acceptance or refusal of
his suit by Meg.

After a restless night he walked down to the beach for a swim, and
left Simon and Peter to guard the dell. As he passed through the
Gates of Dawn, at the hour of sunrise, he beheld Meg coming up
from the seashore. Again the golden glory of the day burned behind
her, but she no longer sang, nor did she dance before the sun like
Aurora. On the contrary, her eyes were downcast, her face
sorrowful, and she attempted to pass Dan without a greeting. The
omission vexed him, and he blocked her path by standing before her.
Courtesy forbade her to force her way past him, so she paused
irresolutely, and looked at him reproachfully. Astonished at this
unusual behaviour, and rightly ascribing it to the influence of Miss
Linisfarne, Dan was the first to speak. He wasted no time in idle talk,
but went straight to the point.

"Meg!" he said, looking at her anxiously, "what is the matter? Have I

offended you, that you would pass me by as a stranger?"

"I have nothing to say," she murmured. "Let me pass, please."

"Not till you tell me how I have been so unfortunate as to offend

you."

"You have not offended me. I have no right to control your actions."

"Then Miss Linisfarne has poisoned your mind against me."

Meg lifted her eyes, and looked at him sorrowfully. Boldly as she had
defended him when absent, she could not help believing that there
was some truth in the assertions of Miss Linisfarne. Dan she had
only known for a few months, while Miss Linisfarne was the close
friend of years, therefore it was only natural she should attach more
weight to the assertions of the latter than to those of the former.
Experience only can instruct as to the proper estimate of a
friendship.

"Miss Linisfarne told me all," she said, with great dignity.

"All what?"

"Can you ask me?" replied Meg, reproachfully. "Does not your
memory recall your words and acts?"
"I really do not understand you," said Dan, much bewildered by this
speech. "What have I said or done to you that you should thus
reproach me?"

"It is not what you said to me, Dan. I have no fault to find with you
in any way, as I told Miss Linisfarne. But she says you called at
Farbis Court, and----"

"Go on," said Dan, seeing she hesitated. "I admit I called at the
Court."

"And there you asked Miss Linisfarne to be your wife."

"I!"

It was all he could say, being dumbfounded by the accusation, which

he guessed was made by Miss Linisfarne.

With her face suffused with blushes, Meg continued to speak in a

low, nervous tone. Since she had discovered that she loved Dan, she
felt ill at ease in his presence, and the subject on which she was
forced to speak was uncongenial. The situation was most trying to a
modest girl like Meg; but her brave spirit did not falter in fulfilling
what she considered to be her duty. Therefore, much as she disliked
the task, she did not shrink from the performance. Dan guessed all
this, and admired her nerve.

"Yes. Miss Linisfarne told me how you wished to marry her for the
sake of her fortune. She said you were poor and nameless, and that
you wished to improve your condition by marriage. Oh, Dan, I never
thought you were so base!"

"Nor am I," he replied, frankly. "It is quite untrue that I wish to

marry Miss Linisfarne. On the contrary---- But that is neither here
nor there. Though she has attempted to blacken my character in
your eyes, I shall say nothing against her. Do you believe this story,
Meg?"
"I told her I did not; but----" She faltered, and looked away.

Angered at the opinion she held of him, which was so galling to his
proud nature, Dan caught her hands.

"Look me in the eyes, Meg, and say if you believe me to be so

base."

"I don't think you are base; but you might be tempted----"

"True; but not by Miss Linisfarne. You know better than that, Meg,
I'll swear. Look me in the eyes, and tell me if you believe this story."

In the steady eyes which met hers, Meg read the truth. All the lies of
Miss Linisfarne faded from her memory. With the instinct of a true
and loving heart, she recognized that Dan spoke the truth.

"I believe you, Dan," she said, frankly. "Miss Linisfarne made a
mistake."

"Miss Linisfarne is---- Well, well! never mind her at present. No, you
need not try to get away, Meg. I have to ask you a question. Can
you not guess what it is?"

"No. I--that is----"

"I see you can. Yes, Meg. Poor and friendless and nameless and
homeless as I am, I wish you to be my wife."

"Your wife!"

"My loved and honoured wife. It is you that have kept me so long at
Farbis. I care nothing for Miss Linisfarne or her money, and a great
deal for you. Dearest, can you accept my love?"

"But I am poor, and----"

"Well! Am I not poor also? I can only offer you a caravan! Come,
Meg, will you be a poor man's wife? You do not speak. They say that
silence gives consent. Meg, dearest wife!"

He drew her unresistingly towards him, and with flushed cheeks and
bright eyes she lay passively in his arms. He bent down to whisper--

"Will you be my wife, Meg?"

She looked up into his face, but uttered no word. Nor was speech
needed, for he saw in her eyes the answer he desired. There, in the
lonely Gates of Dawn, where he had first met her, did he touch her
lips with his own. A great joy filled the hearts of both. Emotion
rendered them dumb, and they could only look silently into one
another's eyes.

"Meg, my darling wife!"

"Dan!"

"Remember, I am a poor wanderer, and you will have a hard life!"

"Not if it is passed with you," she whispered.

"I haven't even a name!"

"Take mine. I love you, Dan! I did not know it till Miss Linisfarne
spoke. Then, when I thought you were to be hers, I felt angered. I
knew then that you were everything to me. In a single moment the
whole of my life seemed to change, and all because I love you."

"My darling!"

He kissed her again. But why strive to describe the indescribable? To

relate a love episode is foolish. Words are too poor to tell all. It were
better to let the reader imagine the looks, and words, and joy of
these two. They felt in that moment the perfect happiness which
comes but once in a lifetime to man or woman. Earth was heaven,
and they the angels who dwelt therein. After a sacred silence, which
lasted it seemed ages, Dan was the first to speak. Having gained his
end, he was now ready to make confession.

"Meg, I have told you a falsehood."

She drew away quickly with a startled look in her eyes, and faltered
out the first thought in her mind.

"Miss Linisfarne?"

"No, no; it has nothing to do with Miss Linisfarne. Do not look so

shocked. It is not a very dreadful story. Do you know who I am,
Meg?"

"Yes; you are Dan."

"No; I am not Dan. Nor am I poor; nor am I a vagrant. I wooed you

as a poor man because I wanted a wife who loved me for myself.
You have done so, my dearest, and now I can confess my deception.
My name is--can you not guess?"

"No. How strangely you speak! Tell me! Who are you?"

"Meg, Meg! whom do I resemble?"

"Sir Alurde," said she, quickly. Then, with a sudden light breaking in
on her mind, "Then he was your ancestor?"

"Ah, you have guessed my secret. Yes, Meg, my real name is Francis
Breel."

"Lord Ardleigh!"

"Precisely. And you, my dearest, who took poor Dan for his own
worth, will be Lady Ardleigh of Farbis Court."
 CHAPTER XXVII.

THE THIRD LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND.

Dear Jack,
If this letter is wild, and incoherent, and rhapsodical, be
sparing of your astonishment and blame. A scribe in my state of
mind is not responsible for his epistles. Therefore be patient and
read this letter carefully, for herein you will find a reason for these
excuses. If you do not find my explanation all-sufficient, then you
are not the sympathetic friend I took you for. What, indeed, is the
use of friendship if it does not encourage and sympathize and
congratulate? Were you in love--which you are not, judging from
your cynical letters--I would patiently listen to your maunderings, so
hearken to mine. If you wonder at this preamble learn the reason in
three sentences. I love her! She loves me! We are engaged. Here I
consider you have an ample explanation.

Now, do not repeat that time-honoured sneer, "I told you so," and
chuckle cynically over my capture by Cupid. It is true that he has
chained me, but I glory in such bonds. Did you but see her face and
hear her voice you would no longer wonder at my surrender. Who
conquers Mars may be beaten by Venus. There is a classical nut for
your cracking.

Doubtless you consider events have moved speedily, seeing I have

thus wooed and won my future wife in so short a space of time. You
are perfectly right in such supposition. The events of a year have
been crammed into seven days. Every hour has brought forth a
surprise, and the result is--as above. My position has been anything
but pleasant of late; but now I trust my troubles are over, though,
according to the unfulfilled portion of Mother Jericho's prophecy, the
worst are still to come. A pleasant prospect, truly! but one rendered
endurable by my present happiness.

Miss Linisfarne is the parent of my troubles and happiness. I told you

about her in my last letters. A faded beauty in ill-health, who is my
tenant at the Court. Ignorant of my identity, she thought I was
simply a decayed gentleman, reduced to poverty and to the shelter
of a caravan. With that inconsistency which is so noticeable a feature
of the sex, she ignored my vagabondage, and, in the character of a
broken-down gentleman, invited me to the Court. For some
inexplicable reason she took a violent fancy to me, and ultimately
proposed to marry me. You look surprised, and frown,--the first, at
the information; the second, that I should impart it to you, and thus
betray a woman's folly.

As a matter of fact, unless I tell you all I can tell you nothing, and so
must be content to accept your censure. I would not speak of such a
thing to others; but to you, who are my second self, and have been
the receptacle of my confidences since we were at Eton, I am surely
justified in making the revelation. And, after all, my friend, you can
put away those wire-drawn notions of honour, as Miss Linisfarne is
not worthy of being considered in any way. She is a base and
designing woman. You must agree with this estimate of her
character--harsh though it seems--when I tell you that she tried to
lower Meg in my eyes, and almost succeeded in blackening my
character to Meg. Such uncalled-for malignancy is, to my mind,
worthy of blame. She must be beaten with her own weapons,
punished for her spiteful behaviour, and generally condemned--at all
events in this letter, which is strictly confidential.

It is useless for me to attempt to fathom her character. Originally it

may have been a noble one, but twenty years of solitude have
warped it strangely. Dr. Merle, who is the father of Meg, made a
confession to me the other day. He heard a rumour that I was to
marry Miss Linisfarne, and thereupon came to tell me that I was not
to do so. He justified this declaration by the confession that his real
name was Mallard--that he had been engaged to Miss Linisfarne
twenty years ago, and that she had ruined his life. More than this he
refused to tell me, but said Tinker Tim could reveal all. The gipsy
declined confession until I married Meg; so, as I intend to do so
shortly, I hope to be fully informed of all these mysteries. As I
surmised, there is a connection between Tim and Dr. Merle and Miss
Linisfarne; but what it is I cannot guess, so must possess my soul in
patience until the gipsy chooses to open his mouth.

After my interview with Merle--or Mallard, as that is his real name--I

received a message from Miss Linisfarne asking me to call and see
her. I went unwillingly, as I was by no means prepossessed in her
favour by the revelation of the doctor. The interview was of the most
painful character. She said that Meg was engaged to a certain Byrne
of Silkstone, and finally offered me her hand, her name, and her
wealth. I refused all three, and, not knowing how to extricate myself
from so awkward a position, uttered the name of Mallard. Its effect
was magical. She fainted, and I, having committed her to the care of
her housekeeper, hastened away. I need hardly say that nothing will
induce me to set foot again in her house.

Much perplexed at my position, I consulted Mr. Jarner, as he is gifted

with good common sense, and is remarkably shrewd in giving
advice. He ascribed her strange conduct to hysteria, and said there
was no truth in her assertion that Meg was engaged--nay, more, that
Byrne of Silkstone was a myth. Why Miss Linisfarne should tell such
falsehoods and offer to marry me I cannot say; but, as I remarked
before, it is useless to attempt to fathom her character. My own
opinion is, that seclusion has tended to unhinge her mind and
destroy her self-control. No sane person would have acted as she
has done. From charity, therefore, let us give her the benefit of the
doubt, and say that she is mad.
Yet there is a method in her madness which is hurtful to those whom
she designs to injure. I am one of those unfortunates. When she
found that I refused to marry, her love changed to hate, and she is a
living example of the truth of Congreve's couplet--

"Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."

With a view, therefore, to blast my happiness, she sought Meg, and

lied to her as she did to me. Declared that I wished to marry her for
the sake of her wealth, that I was a base villain, an escaped
criminal, a nameless outcast, and made me out to be the most
abandoned of mankind. Meg retorted with spirit, and defended me,
but could not help thinking that there might be some truth in these
accusations. I can hardly blame her for such belief. She knew
nothing, or comparatively nothing of me, whereas Miss Linisfarne
has been her friend and benefactress for years.

Unfortunately for Miss Linisfarne and fortunately for myself, I

chanced to meet Meg at the Gates of Dawn, and speedily disabused
her mind of all those malignant accusations. I denied that I had
asked Miss Linisfarne to marry me because I wanted her money,
and, in proof of the absurdity of such an idea, confessed my name
and rank. Before doing so, however, I asked Meg to be my wife, and
she, believing my bare word, accepted my offer. Can you wonder,
then, that I should love and honour and esteem a woman who was
prepared to marry a nameless outcast for his own worth? She is as
simple and loving as a child, and I consider myself the most
fortunate of men in winning her golden heart. What is rank, or title,
or wealth compared with such pure love! She loves me, not my
worldly advantages. Confess now, cynic as you are, that I have
chosen wisely. Ah, Jack, the noblest gift that God can bestow on a
man is the gift of a pure good woman's heart. I have gained this
pearl without price, and henceforth have nothing better to gain from
heaven.
Meg was somewhat alarmed at finding I was King Cophetua in
disguise. The title frightens her, and she is afraid she will not be
worthy of such high rank. Not worthy, indeed! Could I place a crown
instead of a coronet on her brow, it would be far below her deserts.
She is a noble brave pure woman, who will enable me to fight the
battle of life, and do what good lies in my power. I have no fear of
her sinking under the burden of nobility, as did that puling minx who
married the Lord of Burleigh. When Meg becomes more accustomed
to the idea, when she is my wife, you will see that she will bear her
honours nobly. Her beauty, her heart, her talents, her charms all fit
her for such a station. Even you, Jack, fastidious as you are, will
confess that I have the fairest and most loyal wife in the three
kingdoms--ay, in the world.

But enough of these rhapsodies, of which you must be tired. Let me

descend from heaven to earth, and talk of meaner things. Dr. Merle
gave his consent in a scared sort of way, and did not seem to know
what to make of it. He is a poor feeble creature, with a brain sodden
with the drug he takes. Notwithstanding my offer to provide for him,
he declared his intention of remaining at Farbis, which, after all, I
think is the best place for him. He is more fitted for a hermitage than
for the world, as his vice has overmastered his brain and mind and
has ruined his will and self-control. Every time I see him, I wonder
how such a puny creature ever became the father of Meg. The late
Mrs. Merle, or rather Mrs. Mallard, must have been a fine creature. I
asked Meg about her, but she does not remember her mother, who
died during her infancy. As Meg is close on twenty, this remark
proves to me that Merle was not so inconsolable over the treachery
of Miss Linisfarne as he pretends to be, for he must have married
very soon after she jilted him. I can only suppose that he was
disappointed in his wife, and, when she died, came to Farbis with his
child to be in the neighbourhood of his first love. Yet he never
attempted to see her, nor does Miss Linisfarne know that Dr. Merle is
the lover of her youth. From his speedy marriage and subsequent
retirement to Farbis you can see how feeble is his character. There is
not a drop of his blood in the veins of Meg. That true fearless nature
must be inherited from her mother. But how could a woman like Meg
have married a rat like Merle! This thing puzzles me greatly.

Mr. Jarner was delighted with my success, and congratulated me on

gaining the heart of Meg. He considers me the most fortunate of
men, and insisted on my drinking the best half of a bottle of port, in
honour of the event. He is a splendid old man, and quite a character.
With all his love of horses and dogs and sporting, he is deeply
religious, and holds a fairer creed than many of those who use their
outward holiness to cloak a mean soul. None other than he shall
marry Meg and I. If you like to come down and be best man, just
say so. I assure you Jarner is a parson worth meeting.

I don't know if Miss Linisfarne has learned of our engagement. She

must be greatly angered at the downfall of her scheme to part us. At
all events, she gives no sign, but remains shut up at the Court. Meg
is sorry for her, as is only natural; but I cannot feel it in my heart to
pity so malignant a creature. Unless, indeed, she is mad, which puts
a different complexion on the affair.

As soon as my engagement was an accomplished fact, I went in

search of Tinker Tim to tell him of it, and ask for an explanation of
the mysteries. Unfortunately he has gone away on business
connected with his fighting propensities, and will not be back for a
week. However, I saw Mother Jericho, and told her of the
accomplishment of her prophecy. She chuckled and leered like a
wicked old fairy godmother, then damped my joy by hinting that my
troubles were not yet over.

"A false father, a false mother. Fire and flame, and brave deeds," she
croaked,--"all these must be before you take your dearie to church.
But you'll win through it all, and be happy. Your children and
grandchildren shall sit on your knee, and she shall be by your side
for forty years and more."
Can you conceive anything more perplexing? Having seen the first
part of her prophecy fulfilled, I am bound to believe the second. Evil
is coming, but it can only come through Miss Linisfarne. She is
malignant enough for anything, but at present gives no sign of her
intentions. What do you make of the prophecy, Jack? "False father,
false mother, fire and flame, and brave deeds." It is a riddle of the
Sphinx. I can only leave its solution to Tim; but, at all events, I am
happy to think that peace will come in the end. One does not
appreciate joy without sorrow, so I am willing to undergo the
troubles prophesied by the sibyl for the sake of being blessed with
the last part of the prediction. All these ills are to take place before
marriage, and, as I propose to be wedded in the autumn, there is
not much time for their fulfilment. "False father, false mother, fire,
flame, and brave deeds"--I leave the solution to your quick wits, my
friend.

Here I must close this long letter. Write and congratulate me, and
say if you will come down to assist at the termination of my strange
wooing. I am so happy, Jack, that I can write no more, so must
leave you to guess the joy of your attached friend--

ARDLEIGH.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FIRE AND FLAME.

It is difficult, nay impossible, to alter in one day the habit of years.

Meg had been accustomed to repair daily to Farbis Court from her
early girlhood, and, now that Miss Linisfarne had so pointedly
requested her to stay away, found her life disorganized. She still
roamed the moor, in the company of Dan, and was to all appearance
satisfied to see nothing of Miss Linisfarne; but in her heart she
regretted the breach between them, and missed greatly her daily
visit. Miss Linisfarne had behaved kindly for many years to the girl,
and it was not in the nature of Meg to cherish animosity towards one
to whom she owed much. Regarding her benefactress as a second
mother, she was disposed to overlook the past, and make the first
advance towards a reconciliation. This project she unfolded to Dan.

"I cannot bear to think of her all alone in that great house," said
Meg, "and, as I owe her more than I can ever repay, it is only right
that I should see her."

"I am afraid your visit will not be welcome," said Dan, dubiously.
"She no longer looks on you as her protégée, remember, but as a
woman who has thwarted her desires."

"Still, I shall call," insisted Meg; "if she refuses to see me, or to be
reconciled, I can come away again. But at least I shall have done my
duty. Indeed, she has been like a mother to me. All I know is due to
her and to Mr. Jarner."

"What does he say, Meg?"

"He thinks I ought to seek a reconciliation."

"In that case, I approve of your visit. What the vicar says must be
right. Go and see Miss Linisfarne, my darling. It is like your kind
heart to overlook her behaviour."

"Don't speak so harshly of her, Lord Ardleigh."

"For your sake, I won't," said Dan, promptly; "let us say no more
about her, Meg. Call when you please; but I fancy your embassy will
be unsuccessful."
"Oh, I hope not! I trust not! In spite of all that has passed I love her
still, Lord Ardleigh."

"Meg! You have called me Lord Ardleigh twice."

"Oh, I forgot! Frank, then."

"I don't like Frank either. Call me Dan."

"But I cannot go on calling you Dan all your life."

"Why not? It is the name I like best, for under it I won your love.
And, indeed, Meg, I have been called Dan for so many months, that
I no longer know myself as Francis Breel, or as Lord Ardleigh."

"Very well," said Meg, coquettishly, "I shall call you Dan in private,
when you are very, very good. Oh, Dan."

The reason of this exclamation can be easily imagined. He who fails

to guess it, is no true lover. Under the able tuition of Dan, the girl
soon learned to know what love was. They were ideal lovers, and no
quarrel occurred to mar the tranquillity of those golden days. Cupid
was king then, and they his humble worshippers and obedient
subjects.

Having thus obtained the consent and approbation of Dan and the
vicar, Meg repaired to Farbis Court. It was rather late, and the dusk
was closing in, for she had been all the afternoon at the gipsy camp
in the company of her lover. He left her on the brow of the hill at her
own request, as she wished to see Miss Linisfarne that evening. Dan
wished her to postpone her visit until next day; but Meg was
resolute. She had already put off the call too long, and was
determined to see and comfort the lonely woman that very evening.

"It is only six o'clock, Dan," she said, in answer to his entreaties,
"and I can easily be home before seven. It is three weeks since I
saw her, so I must go at once."
"To-morrow morning----"

"Then I shall be with you. You keep me by your side all day. If I do
not call in the evening, I shall not see her at all."

"At least let me accompany you to the park gates."

"No. There is no necessity. I can go myself, as I have always done.

No one will touch me in Farbis. Good night, Dan. No. Only one kiss."

Thus they parted, and Meg ran down the hill in the twilight. Dan
watched her with some anxiety, and felt an unaccountable
presentiment of evil. He did not think for a moment that Miss
Linisfarne would harm the girl, else he would not have consented to
her going to the Court. But there was a sense of uneasiness in his
breast, for which he could not account. He looked towards Farbis
Court, dark and forbidding under the hill. The sight did not lighten
his spirits.

"I hope I am wise in letting her go," he said aloud. "Pshaw! Miss
Linisfarne is foolish, but not wicked. Meg is all right. But I'll call at
the house after supper, and see if she is back, and also ask the
result of her mission. She will fail, I fear; Miss Linisfarne is not the
woman to forgive easily."

Thus reassuring himself, he returned to his dell to prepare supper.

Nevertheless the presentiment of evil still lurked in his mind, and he
did not make so cheery a meal as usual. Had he only known what
was taking place at the Court at that moment, he would no longer
have wondered at his expectation of coming evil. It would have been
wiser to trust a sparrow to a cat, than Meg to the clutches of Miss
Linisfarne on that evening. A woman scorned is dangerous.

She was pacing up and down the long drawing-room, with clasped
hands, and a look of baffled rage on her face. Innumerable candles
lighted the room brilliantly, and were reflected in the dusty mirrors.
Miss Linisfarne, with dishevelled hair, looked at herself in the glass,
and laughed bitterly at the wreck of her beauty.

"No wonder he would not look at me," she said despairingly. "Old
and haggard and wrinkled before my time. Had ever woman so
miserable an existence as mine? Will that unhappy episode of my life
ever haunt me? That man knows it, and knows Mallard. Then there
is the other. Ah, where is he? I was a fool to leave him; but I have
been punished for my folly--bitterly punished. Fierce as he was,
surely the spectacle of this wreck would satiate his hatred. But he is
dead--dead. I have not seen nor heard of him for twenty years. He
is dead, with my dead past."

She paused and walked rapidly up and down the dusty room. In her
loose white robe she looked like a phantom. With her flashing eyes
and restless gestures, she seemed like a mad woman. In truth her
brain was not quite sane. Long seclusion and incessant fretting had
rendered her irresponsible, and she frequently gave way to fits of
rage which were scarcely to be distinguished from insanity.
Ordinarily languid and weak, she possessed at these times the
strength of a man. She was dangerous, and knew she was
dangerous. She was mad, but did not know it. Nor did any one else.
Only when she was alone did she give way to these paroxysms--as
on the present occasion.

"If I only had that girl here, I would kill her!" she panted. "I would
crush her life out, and stamp out the beauty of her face! He loves
her beauty as once the other loved mine. Oh, that I could mar and
spoil it! I hate her! I hate her!"

Leaning against the wall, exhausted with her passions, she looked as
though in a dying condition. The fit was ended for the moment, and,
weak with her late exertion, she threw herself on her couch by the
oriel.
At that moment, Meg entered the room. She was astonished at the
blaze of light, and wondered where her friend could be.

"Miss Linisfarne! Miss Linisfarne!"

The woman on the couch heard and recognized the voice. A fierce
thrill of joy shot through her; but she did not move. She did not
even raise her face from the couch, but mentally repeated to herself-
-

"She is here! She is in my power!"

Unaware of the wrath which possessed her hostess, Meg came

forward and knelt by the couch. She was deeply sorry to find Miss
Linisfarne in so prostrate a condition, and strove to comfort her.

"Miss Linisfarne, it is I. It is Meg. I have come to see you, and tell

you how sorry I am that we quarrelled. Won't you speak to me?"

By this time Miss Linisfarne was more composed, and, with the
cunning of a mad woman, concealed the hatred she felt for her
visitor. Yet, when she looked at Meg with glittering eyes, the girl
started back in horror. The invalid appeared dangerous; but of her
Meg felt no fear--as yet.

"Miss Linisfarne! Are you ill?"

"Ill, child? I am very ill," replied Miss Linisfarne, in a hurried voice.

"See how bright my eyes are; feel how hot my hands are. Fever,
child--fever."

"Lie down again, and let me get you a cooling drink--your medicine."

"No medicine will do me any good, child. I am dying."

"You must not talk like that, Miss Linisfarne," said Meg, soothingly;
"you are only excited and feverish. Lie down again. Please do."
"Why are you here?" asked Miss Linisfarne, taking no notice of the
gentle request.

"I came to say how sorry I am that----"

"There, there, child--say no more about it."

"You forgive me?"

"Yes. I forgive you. See, I kiss you. Of course I forgive you."

She pressed a Judas kiss on Meg's brow, where her lips seared like
fire. Glancing hurriedly round the room, she wondered how she
could harm the girl. Here, it was useless; the servants were within
call, they would hear here. She must get the girl to some other part
of the house, and there---- Yes. In that moment she formed a plan,
and proceeded to carry it out. No fox was so cunning as she, at that
moment.

"So you are to marry Lord Ardleigh, child?"

"Yes. You know him, then."

"I was told--I was told. Ha! ha! No wonder he was like the picture of
Sir Alurde."

"Sir Alurde is his ancestor," said Meg, wondering at the strange

manner of her hostess.

"Yes, yes! And you are to be Lady Ardleigh! I am glad he means

well, child. Yes, I thought his doings were evil. Poor man! Ha, ha!"

"Dear Miss Linisfarne, lie down, and let me call the housekeeper."

"No, no! I shall be better presently. Let me get up! I am quite

strong. Hush, child; not a word! Let me whisper in your ear! I have a
wedding present for you."
"A present for me!"

"Yes, I am going to give you the portrait of Sir Alurde. I asked Lord
Ardleigh, and he said I could do so."

"Have you seen him?" asked Meg, rather astonished that Dan had
said nothing to her about it.

"Yes, yes! The other day! Did he not tell you? I have had the portrait
taken from the gallery and placed in a room. It looks splendid, child!
Sir Alurde is a king among men. Come and see him."

She sprang up from the couch, and seized a candle from one of the
sconces. Meg tried to restrain her; but Miss Linisfarne insisted in
going. In order to humour her, and in the hope that she might
afterwards be more amenable to reason, Meg agreed to accompany
her; and, with Miss Linisfarne leading the way, and bearing the
candle, they left the drawing-room. Meg had no idea that the
woman was mad, as she had no experience of lunacy. She certainly
thought her conduct strange, but felt no fear, and humoured her as
she would a child. Had she only guessed the truth, what horrors
might have been averted!

Up the stairs went Miss Linisfarne, chuckling over the success of her
strategy. She led Meg far away from the inhabited portion of the
house to the west wing, which was shut up and barred. Evidently
she had been there lately, for a bunch of keys hung at her girdle,
and with one of these she unlocked the doors. In the darkness only
made more profound by the glimmer of that one candle, Meg began
to feel a little afraid.

"Where are you taking me to, Miss Linisfarne?" she said, shrinking
back.

"To see Sir Alurde's portrait! It is only a little way now! Come, child!
Come, I say!" she added, savagely seizing the girl's wrist. "You must
see my wedding present. Ah, my dear, a bonny bride you will make!"
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