"But I mean it; I want you to be my wife."
"You could not get my father's consent," said she faintly.
"I can try. Tell me, if he consents, will you?"
"Yes," whispered Tue passionately, and fled. Her brain was in a tumult. Joy, passion, hope, foreboding, were mingled in a chaotic mass of thought. But as she approached her father's hut she could think more clearly. What had she done? She had expressed her preference for a mere stranger; one of whose very name she was ignorant. In vain she assured herself that his conduct at the glen proved him good and noble. "A single act is no basis for determining character," her judgment replied; "it may be quite in keeping with the actor's character; it may be merely a whim." She had been very rash, she knew; and she was growing more and more repentant every moment as she lifted the latch of her father's door.
(To be concluded.)