as soon believe it Marlowe himself.

of the issue of one battle! I would of my old friend She is a woman of spirit, and if it be true that Edward of March visited her, I warrant you she received him SO that he will scarce do it again. Farrago of tales! Haste, Tony! Black Andrew shall ride south this very night with the letter."

It was a difficult letter to write, for the Knight's directions were long and wandering, like his talk; but Antonio was a fine scribe, with a clever way of putting things, and also spelt English better than many an Englishman. There was something to touch the most worldly heart in the frank and simple confidence, the perfect trust in her loyalty, with which Sir William Roden committed his young grandchild's future into Lady Marlowe's friendly keeping. And this letter, which was the direct consequence of the Vicar's warning intervention, and which, far more effectually than the locked-up will, decided the future of Margaret Roden and of Ruddiford, was carried south in the small hours of the next morning by an armed messenger in Sir William's livery of yellow laced with gold.

castle. The still air was laden with snow; wild November had given way to the hard grip of a most wintry December, and all that northern midland country was snowed up and frozen. The deep clay-stained stream of the Ruddy, winding between willow copses through the flat meadows on which Ruddiford Castle looked down, was covered with ice, though not yet hard enough to bear man and horse, so that the usual ford some way below the bridge was a difficulty, and all the country traffic had to pass over Sir William's bridge under the castle wall. The road that led to the ford was deep in snow; that which ended at the bridge was already well furrowed and trampled. The guard at the bridge tower, which defended its further entrance, while the castle gates commanded its narrow twisting length, its projecting piers and niches for foot passengers, had enough to do in receiving Sir William's tolls from horse and cart and waggon, as the country people pressed in to the Christmas market.

It was not only the white and grey wilderness, the heavy shadow of the woods that swept away beyond the meadows, the frozen river and moving peasant figures on the bridge, that kept Margaret Roden's eyes employed as she stood in her grandfather's window. At this moment, under the heavy snow-clouds, a flood of glowing yellow light poured out and glorified all that desolate world. The bridge, the tower, the polished, shining river, a band of horsemen with flashing lances and fluttering pennons who rode up from the south,-all this became suddenly like a hard, brilliant illumination in some choice book of prayers. Margaret forgot to answer her grandfather, so busy was she in gazing down at the bridge, and Sir William's own thoughts were distracted by something which told him,

-the knowledge coming rather as a shock-that in the last few months his pet child had grown into a woman, and a beautiful one too. It was a most lovely picture, of which he had only a side view from within; the exquisite lines of Margaret's figure, the perfect shape of her head and neck, the warm colouring of the cheek, the masses of soft red-brown hair, which, far away from courts and fashions, she wore unconventionally as she and her old nurse pleased. The setting sun in its glory bathed this young figure, standing in the broad new window of Sir William's room, the window which he had made for his son John's sake, to let in the south and the sun.

"My golden Meg," he repeated, half to himself, as his eyes followed the broad track of sunshine on the rush-strewn floor. Then he went on muttering: "Christmas here, and no answer from my Lady! If she could see the girl now, she would not fear the charge of her."

A trumpet-call rang through the air.

Meg stepped closer to the window, threw back the lattice suddenly and leaned out, so that she might see the whole length of the bridge.

Sir William's guard at the tower had not delayed that troop of riders long, and they were now crossing the bridge at a foot's pace. Their leader, a tall man almost unarmed, riding a richly trapped horse and wearing a velvet cap with young Prince Edward's badge of a silver swan, was stooping wearily on his saddle when he rode in from the heavy country ways. But from the middle of the bridge he looked up at the castle; and there he saw the great window set suddenly open, and the vision of a girl looking down upon him,-"like a saint from the windows of heaven," as he said afterwards. For the full golden glory of the light rested upon her, and all

the rugged old keep shone like the ramparts of the clouds, and Sir William Roden's yellow banner, heavy with the embroidery of her hands, rose slowly from the flag-staff on the leads and flapped high above her head in the breath of the evening.

The stranger looked for a moment or two, his face, thin and dark with heavy eyes weary of the way, lifted towards Margaret, who in all her young womanly beauty bent upon him the intent, wondering gaze of a child. Then he bared his brown head and bowed down to his horse's neck; then he looked up again, riding very slowly, and so, still with eyes aloft and a new flame of life in them, passed out of Margaret's sight into the shadow of the walls.

"Meg! What do you see down there, child?"

The question was quick and imperious. It startled Mistress Meg, who for the last few minutes had quite forgotten her grandfather's presence. She turned, and clanged the lattice to. At the same moment the snow-cloud came down and smothered the struggling sun in his five minutes' victory. The room became dark, except for the flickering flames under the chimney.

Meg could not answer her grandfather, for in good faith she did not know who or what she had seen. Some one she had never seen before, and must see again,—yes, if all the armies of York and Lancaster were between! which they were not, for her keen senses were very conscious of sounds below, of an honoured guest arriving. arriving. He,-he, whose look and bearing, even at that distance, had taught her something she had never known-a few minutes, and he would be standing in the room, talking with her grandfather, looking at her once Was he old? Was he young? Was he the King himself, Henry of

more.

Lancaster, into whose dark and gentle eyes she had looked up once as a child? Was he one of King Arthur's knights come back from fairy-land,Sir Launcelot, perhaps, of whom her nurse had told her the story?

She came silently forward, took her lute and touched its strings; but she could not sing, for her heart was beating so that it choked her. "It was, Grandfather," she said, coming nearer to him, "it was a troop of horse that crossed the bridge."

"Whose men? Not Jasper Tilney's? Was he there himself? "

"He? Yes,-oh no, no, not Jasper Tilney—a knight, a prince, a noble lord-how should I know?" the girl said, then laughed and broke off suddenly.

The door of the room was opened, and two servants carried in tall copper candlesticks, with wax candles lighted, which they set down upon the table. Then Antonio came swiftly in, with a side-glance at Margaret, and stood before his master. "Sir, the Lord Marlowe asks to be received by your worship. He brings letters from my Lady his mother."

"Ha! His Lordship is very wel

With some difficulty Sir William lifted his stiffened limbs from his chair, and advanced a few steps towards the stairs, leaning heavily on his stick, which hardly seemed support enough for him. Margaret and Antonio moved forward at the same instant to help him. Their eyes met, and the Italian, as if commanded, fell back suddenly and stood like a servant in the background. A pretty, fair girl slipped into the room and passed close to his shoulder, going round to wait upon Margaret. As she went, she lingered long enough to breathe in his ear, "Who is this?" and the young man answered in the same whisper, inaudible to the others,

"Mad Marlowe." He smiled as he spoke. "Oh, no danger then!" murmured Alice Tilney, her wild brother's partisan in secret, though in Sir William's presence she dared not name Jasper. Antonio only smiled again.

Way-worn, and wet with snow, Lord Marlowe was ushered into the room by the old steward and the other servants. He was a tall slender man of thirty-five or thereabouts, with a slight stoop of the shoulders; his face was long, brown and delicate, with dark hazel eyes that were strangely attractive and sweet, yet shining with a sort of wildness, or rather a wistful melancholy. His hair, ruffled into untidy curls by the wind, gave him a look more picturesque than courtly. His eyes passed quickly over Sir William Roden, the noble old man who was moving to meet him with words of cordial welcome, to glow with a brown flame as he fixed them on Margaret. She looked up half shyly under her long lashes; he could hardly see the colour of the eyes they hid, but his vision of the window stood before him in breathing flesh and blood, and Harry Marlowe, used to courts, tired of a world he knew too well, seemed to see a lost ideal once more in this child, as innocent as she was lovely. Not that he dreamed, at first, of offering this country beauty, his stepmother's young protégeé, anything but the admiration, touched with a fugitive thrill of passion, which such a face must rouse in any man not stockish and a tasteless fool. But he said between his teeth, to the bewilderment of those who caught the words, "By heaven! too good for the Popinjay!"

Courtier, even more than soldier, as Harry Marlowe was, his manner had the bold unconventionality of a man who cares little what his com

pany may think of him. Bowing low to Sir William, he addressed his first words to the girl on whose arm the old Knight was leaning. "My fair lady, your humble servant greets you well," he said. "I heard of you from far; I saw you, all crowned with gold, leaning from the window to welcome me, and yet I think you had no news of my coming?"

"None, my Lord," said Margaret, and she trembled; for now the strange hero had bent on his knee before her, and her hand lay small and warm on his long cold fingers, and was touched once, twice, by eager lips that seemed to leave a print of fire. Mistress Margaret felt herself flushing all over face and neck. The fearless young girl was now afraid to look up, to meet his eyes again, but she forced herself to one short, shy glance, and immediately the question thundered in her brain, "If this be only courtesy, what then is love?" She heard his voice speaking to her grandfather, but did not understand what he said, for the very realising of his presence seemed enough for her whole being; a power, sweet yet terrible, held body and soul.

Now, after some ceremonious phrases, Sir William and Lord Marlowe sat down opposite each other, while Margaret stood by her grandfather's chair with her hand on his shoulder; for some mysterious reason the close neighbourhood of that faithful old love seemed the one safe place.

These three were not alone. Alice Tilney, staring and laughing uneasily, and Dame Kate, the old nurse in a great hood, stood behind Margaret in the shadow; and on the other side, the dark and pale face of Antonio, with his inscrutable smile, far handsomer than the Englishman, though lacking his distinction and attractiveness, hovered like a ghost behind Lord Marlowe's chair. The servants

passed out one by one, leaving the end of the room in twilight; the fire crackled and flamed, but neither it nor the two high candles were enough to light the large vaulted space. Only that central group of three, between the table and the fire, were very clearly to be seen.

Sir William talked with great satisfaction, and Lord Marlowe listened, with eyes no longer bent upon Margaret; for he was a gentleman, and would neither embarrass a lady nor neglect a venerable host. In the ears of all present Sir William talked of his will, and of the contents of the letter he had sent to Lady Marlowe. It seemed an immense relief to him to speak of all this to the person authorised to hear, whom it really concerned, for this same Harry Marlowe was one of his executors.

As he talked of his anxious wish to leave Margaret in safe and friendly keeping, Lord Marlowe kept his eyes bent upon the ground. He hardly looked up when he said: "But you will live long, Sir. You surely do not wish to part with Mistress Margaret before it is necessary? You do not wish to commit her now to my mother's care? From your letter, my Lady thought that was the case, but I cannot believe it."

"Fore God, I hardly know what I wish," said the Knight with a laugh. "I want her safe from knaves, and 'tis only fools that surround me. Your co-executors, my Lord, are as honest men as you will find south of the Trent; one of them is a saint, indeed, and the other two have wits enough to furnish four, but for all that they are senseless fools, swallowing every grain of gossip. And were I to die all of a sudden, as the apothecary warns me I likely shall, why, I could hardly trust these fellows to watch over Margaret till your mother was pleased to send for her. They

are most likely to let a certain knave step in and carry her off, just because he is a good Lancastrian, his only merit,-ay, Mistress Alice, I know you are behind there, but a man may be on the right side and yet on the wrong-a Lancastrian and a brigand, eh?"

There was a short silence, for the Knight's words might well be hard to understand.

"Do I follow you, Sir?" Lord Marlowe asked.

He lifted his eyes slowly, and there was an angry line across his brow. Almost as if against his will, he found himself looking at Margaret, not at her grandfather, and for a moment the girl met steadily those wonderful eyes, full of light from a world she did not know. Then apparently Harry forgot what he was going to say, forgot a momentary vexation at the hint that some country fools did not believe in the loyalty of his family, and would step in, if they could, between Margaret and the guardians her grandfather had chosen. He spoke no more, but fell into a dream. Sir William stared at him curiously. "You, then, my Lord, are the person with authority, whom I begged her Ladyship to send here to me?"

"I am her envoy, no doubt," Lord Marlowe answered. "As to my message, my mission, we are not alone, and I—”

"You are tired and wet, I ask your pardon for forgetting it," said Sir William graciously, raising himself in his chair. "Tony, show his Lordship to the guest-chamber,-tell them to bring wine and meat; you are overwrought, my Lord, you have ridden far. In the meanwhile, did I not hear something of letters from my Lady Marlowe ?"

"Ah, letters, - pardon me!" Harry's fingers wandered to his pouch, but did not open it. He rose suddenly

to his feet and made a step towards Sir William. "You see me, sir,” he went on, eagerly, "your old friend's son. Think of me so, I beseech you, and not as the step-son of my Lady Marlowe. Let me stand alone; and now, let us be alone, Sir William."

A watchful look came into the old

Knight's eyes. The movement and the words, both eccentric, the dreamy manner, as of a man walking in his sleep-all this suggested a chilly fear that the parson might have been right after all, that Lord Marlowe's mind was not quite evenly balanced. Sir William looked beyond his strange guest and met the eyes of Antonio, who stooped forward into the light, his lips moving, and shook his head warningly.

"We are alone, my Lord, to all intents and purposes,' "Sir William said, with dignity. My granddaughter is here, the person most concerned, you cannot, I think, have that to say which she may not hear -her old nurse, her trusted friend Mistress Tilney, and my secretary, who is to me as a son. Say what you please, my Lord."

"Good! then I must repeat my task without question," Harry answered very gravely, looking on the floor. "My step-mother, after debating how she could best carry out your wishes, instructed me to ask Mistress Margaret Roden's hand in marriage for my—”

"Yourself, my Lord!"

Where did the words come from? They were spoken in a loud, strained whisper, which whistled on the air and almost echoed round the room. Every one started, and looked at someone else, every one, except Lord Marlowe. He stopped short for a moment, then ended his sentence with the word, "Myself!"

The sensation in the room was extraordinary; the very silence