"Your new cousin seems to be a most attrac tive girl. Is she not so ?" "Very. Mary." Her eyes are gloriously beautiful, "Oh, indeed," said Mary, while her nether lip quivered, her eyes drooped, and a pallor almost ghastly stole over her soft face. "Yes, just like yours, except that the lids are not so finely formed, nor the lashes, though thick, so long." "Am I to compare with her ?" she asked, a little assured. "Yes," said Cyril, smiling back at the wistful smile. "Indeed!" "Yes; but you would gain immensely by the comparison. But come, my dearest, there must be no pouting, no doubt of me, no jealousy of poor Gwenny. You know how dearly I love, and have ever loved you-ay, almost since you were a mere girl, when I came home from India, and brought your dead brother's sword and rings to Lonewoodlee; but listen to me now, I have much to say, and may not have so good an opportunity again." His left arm was round her waist; their right hands were clasped together, and as Mary's head drooped on his shoulder, her words became sighs or only half-articulated tenderness. She looked helpless and beautiful, soft and ladylike; and once more, in the tumult of his heart, Cyril, with broken accents, urged a private marriage, for her further security, in case the worst should happen to him; but Mary was firm, and with tears and paleness-not blushes-spoke of her father's health, and how she would not and could not, with honour to herself, marry even Cyril (whom she loved as her own soul) in a fashion such as he proposed, as it would insure the contempt of his family and the doubt of society; and this she reiterated again, firmly, sadly, earnestly, and with her eyes full of tears, till Cyril became convinced that the idea was impolitic, unwise, and not calculated to conduce to their future happiness. He drew the glove from her left hand, and while placing the diamond ring upon her wedding finger-a slender little finger it was-he drew her still closer to his breast. "Mary," he whispered, "my darling Mary, you are the secret wife of my heart. Never let this betrothal ring-the ring that binds you to me-leave your finger until I replace it by one that shall be consecrated!" and he kissed her on the eyes, and then the hand that bore the symbol which was indicative of affection long before the days of Juvenal. "" As your wife, Cyril, I shall ever deem myself; as your widow, should we never meet again!" said Mary, in a soft, low, agitated voice. And with something of a prayer in his heart, Cyril lifted his hat, as he kissed her once more. After this they became more composed, even more happy, perhaps, for their hearts became filled with a divine trust in themselves and in the future. "Yet what shall I do when you are far away from me, Cyril ?" asked Mary. "Men love so differently from women. They have their avocations, occupations—their friends and amusements. The lonely woman can but brood and weep in silence: her heart, thrust back upon herself as it were, for lack of the thousand little tendernesses and kindnesses that the man she loves can alone bestow." "True, Mary; but do not repine thus, darling." The twilight had deepened into the gloaming now, and even that was darkening fast; so leading his horse by the bridle, Cyril walked along the lonely hill-side path with Mary towards her home, and at last, with happy hearts, they parted at the end of the ancient thicket. "Shall I see you to-morrow, Cyril?" she asked, as he mounted. "It is impossible, Mary. I am engaged to dine at Ernescleugh, and that place lies in quite an opposite direction from this. Adieu till next evening. Adieu, with a thousand kisses to you." And he galloped away. Mary's heart misgave her; he was to dine at Ernescleugh, with Everard Home. She had, with a reticence that was unwise and unlike her, shrank nervously from speaking to Cyril of her enforced detention at Chesterhaugh; but now she trembled lest the young Master of Ernescleugh had recognised her in the waggonette, and might speak of the strange circumstance of her being there with Chesters, and at such an hour. The demon of doubt had been removed from her heart; but fear now took his place, and a time came when Mary repented bitterly of the reticence in question. She was alternately happy and fearful-longing intently for her next meeting with Cyril, and resolved to tell him openly of the only secret that haunted her; and she was never weary of kissing and looking at the ring, the solemn link which bound her fate to that of Cyril Wedderburn. And now, when she thought of the place where it had been placed upon her finger-the old triple thorn tree-there came back to memory a quaint legend connected with her family. It was a little ominous, so far as regarded the ring, and yet Mary laughed. For local tradition avers that, in the days when Mary of Lorraine was Regent of Scotland, Malcolm Lennox, younger brother of Oliver, who built the present Tower of Lonewoodlee, was a famous Border warrior, who caused an infinite deal of trouble and anxiety to the Governor of Berwick, the Captain of Norham, and other Wardens along the English Border. Like his compatriot, Sir William of Deloraine"A stark moss-trooping Scot was he As ere couched Border lance by knee. But one night he had got more wine than usual, when supping with the Laird of Thirlstane, and lost his way in Dogden Moss, where he must have perished, had not a beautiful young woman, who suddenly appeared, become his guide to firm land, and before daybreak he had betrothed himself to her, and placed on a finger of her left hand a golden ring. Some nights after this, he was assailed by a multitude of wild cats, who seemed to have been holding a species of "sabbatt," or Walpurgis festival, at the triple thorn tree, and had to defend himself with a sword. In the course of this strange mêlée he hewed the foreleg from one which had made itself particularly obnoxious in the assault; and on the yelling grimalkins taking to flight, he found that his trenchant whinger had amputated, not the limb of a cat, but the |