What the curate might have said further was lost to his hearers. Just at this moment, on turning a bend of the river, the pretty little low- arched bridge that spans it in front of Richmond came in sight; seeing which, the children raised such a shout of joy in the bows of the gondola, that our conversation shunted into a fresh channel, while our teamster, urging his horse by a multitude of "gee wo's," into a brisk trot, tightened our tow-rope and led us up in fine style to our goal.

A short distance from the landing-place under the bridge, we found the detachments that had gone by road, awaiting us. Joining company, we proceeded together to the park, and set about our picnic in the usual harum-scarum fashion, chasing truant children, losing one another, finding one another, making merry over the most dire mishaps, and enjoying the whole thing hugely—elders, juveniles, and all—from beginning to end.

The vicar made a perfect boy of himself. With a charming gleefulness, he did the most outrageous things—at which Master Adolphus, aetat twelve, would have turned up his nose, as being much beneath his years and dignity. He said he did it only to amuse the children; but, he took such an active part in the games he instituted, that we declared that he joined in them for his own personal gratification.

Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, too, who was the gayest of the gay, specially distinguished himself for his vaulting powers in a sport which he entitled in his broken English manner "ze leap of ze frog;" and, as for grave Doctor Batson, whom we all thought so formal and dignified in his professional tether, why, the way in which he "stuck in his twopenny," as the boys said, and "gave a 'back,'" was a caution to the lookers-on!

Then we had a substantial "soldier's tea" in and around a little cottage conveniently-situated close to the park:—there, we boiled our kettles, and brewed great jorums of straw-coloured water, at the sight of which a Chinaman would have been filled with horror, impregnated as it was with the taste of new tin and the flavour of moist brown sugar and milk. The children enjoyed it, however, in conjunction with clothes baskets full of sliced bread-and-butter, and buns and cake galore:— so, our main consideration was satisfied.

The whole thing passed off well, the only mishap, throughout the day, arising from Horner having filled Miss Spight's galoshes with hot tea; but, as she did not happen to be wearing them at the time, the accident was not of much consequence, although she soundly rated the young gentleman for his awkwardness.

Everybody, too, was satisfied—the vicar and Miss Pimpernell, at the success of the treat and the pleasure of the school-children; the churchwardens, that the expenses did not come out of their pockets; Lady Dasher, at Mr Mawley's attentions to her daughter, which she really thought "quite marked;" and the rest of us, more youthful members of the parish gathering, at the general delightfulness of the day's outing—the excursion by water, the picnic in the park, the gipsying, the fresh breeze, the bright sun, the everything!

I was happy, too, although I had not yet had a chance of speaking to Min privately—in the boat there were more listeners near than I cared for, and on shore she was too busy entertaining a small crowd of toddlekins, for whose delectation she told deeply-involved fairy stories, and wove unlimited daisy-chains of intricate patterns and simple workmanship. Still, I knew that before night closed, I should have the wished-for opportunity of telling my tale; and, in the meantime, I was quite contented to sit near her, and hear her sweet voice, and be certain that she did not care for Mr Mawley after all!

The day could not pass, however, without the curate and I having our customary spar; and it happened in this wise.

On our way down to the gondola, after packing up the omnibus contingent of juveniles safely, in company with their mothers and a hecatomb of emptied baskets, and seeing the party off with a parting cheer from both sides, Miss Spight amiably suggested that she thought it was going to rain; at which, of course, there arose a general outcry.

"Dear me," said Miss Pimpernell, "I believe you are right, for, there are the midges dancing, too! I hope none of you girls will get your new bonnets spoilt! But, you needn't be alarmed, my dears," she added to reassure us, "it is certain not to come down before morning, if you will take an old woman's word for it."

"You may believe Sally, and set your minds at ease," said the vicar. "She's a rare judge of the weather, and as good as a farmer or sailor in that respect."

"Are the midges a sign of rain?" asked Min; "I never heard that before."

"Yes, my dear," said Miss Pimpernell, seating herself in the gondola, which we had now reached. "They always dance about twelve hours or so before it rains."

"Are there not some other signs given by animals, also, when there is going to be a change in the weather?" asked Bessie Dasher.

"Yes," said Mr Mawley, anxious, as usual, to show off his erudition, "cows low, swallows fly near the ground, sheep bleat, and—"

"Asses bray," said I, with emphasis.

"So I hear," said he quickly. The curate was getting sharper than ever.

"Ah," said I, "that is only a 'tu quoque!'"

"What is that?" asked Bessie Dasher, thinking I was making use of some term of virulent abuse, I verily believe.

"Oh!" said Mr Mawley, who was in high feather at having retorted my cut so brilliantly, "it is only a polite way of saying 'you're another,' an expression which I dare say you have often heard vulgar little boys in the street make use of. I say, Lorton," he added, addressing me, "I think that's one to me, eh?"

"All right," said I, "score it up, if you like."

And, we started down the stream homeward bound.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"GOOD-NIGHT!"

Era gia l'ora che volge 'l disio, A' naviganti e 'ntenerisce il cuore, Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, E che lo nuova peregrin d'amore Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore!

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I could say good-night till it be morrow!"

We were sitting side by side, Min and I, leaning over the gunwale of the "gondola" which was rapidly gliding down the river; the stream being in our favour, and our teamster on the towing path keeping his horse up to a brisk trot, that caused us to proceed at a faster rate than we could have pulled even a lighter boat.

It was a lovely summer night, calm and still, with hardly a breath of wind in the air; although, it was not at all unpleasantly close or oppressive.

A bright crescent moon was shining, touching up the trees that skirted the bank with a flood of silvery-azure light, that brought out each twig and particle of foliage in strong relief, and cast their trunks in shade; while, the surface of the water, unstirred by the slightest ripple, gleamed like a mirror of burnished steel, winding in and out, in its serpentine course, between masses of dense shadow—until it was lost to sight in the distance, behind a sudden bend, and a dark projecting clump of willows and undergrowth.

Our boat seemed to be the only floating thing for miles!

Had it not been for an occasional twinkle from the far-off window of some riparian villa, and the "whish" of a startled swan as it swerved aside to allow the boat to sweep by, we might easily have imagined ourselves traversing the bosom of one of those vast, solitary rivers of the wilderness across the sea.

The children were nearly all asleep, tired out with happiness in excess; and, most of us were silent, being awed by the beauty of the evening into voiceless admiration.

A little girl near us, wakeful still, was breaking one of the daisy- chains that Min had woven her at Richmond, and casting the pieces one by one into the current as it hurried along:—the daisy cups sometimes keeping pace with us, as our tow-rope slackened, and then falling astern, on our horse trotting ahead once more.

"Don't you remember," said I to Min, "those lines of Schiller's Der Jungling am Bache? They seem appropriate to that little incident,"—I continued, pointing to the small toddlekin, who was destroying the daisy-chain:—

"'An der Quelle sass der Knabe Blumen wand er sich zum Kranz, Und er sah sie fortgerissen Treiben in den wellen Tanz. Und so fleihen meine Tage, Wie die quelle rastlos hin! Und so bleichet meine Jugend, Wie die Kranze schnell verbluhn!'"

"They are very pretty," said Min. "Still, do you know, as a rule I do not think German poetry nice. It always sounds so harsh and guttural to me, however tender and sentimental the words may be."

"That may be true in some respects," I answered; "but if you hear it well read, or sung, there is much more pathos and softness about it than one is able to discern when simply skimming it over to oneself. Some of Goethe's little ballads, for instance, such as 'The Erl King,' and others that Walter Scott has translated, are wonderfully beautiful; not to speak of Uhland's poetry, and La Motte Fouque's charming Undine, which is as pretty a poem as I have ever read."

"I confess," said Min, "that I have not had any general experience of German literature. Indeed, I have quite neglected it since I left school; and then I only studied heavy books—such as The History of Frederick the Great, that wearisome Jungfrau von Orleans, and others of Schiller's plays."

"Ah!" I replied, "that accounts for it, then. The more you read German, the more you will like it. I think our schoolmasters and schoolmistresses make a great mistake, generally, in the books they select for the instruction and familiarising of their pupils with foreign languages. They appear, really, to choose the driest authors they can pick out! If I had anything to do with 'teaching the young idea how to shoot,' I should adopt a very different plan."

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I can fancy I see you, a grim old pedagogue, with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and a snuff-coloured coat! What would be your new system, Mr Professor?"

"Well," said I, "in the first place, I should not dream of putting books like Schiller's dramas into their hands, as is the ordinary course, before they were able to translate pretty fluently, gathering the sense of what they read without the aid of a dictionary. I say nothing against the masterpieces of the great German classic. I like Schiller, myself. But, what boy or girl can appreciate the poetry of his descriptions, and the grandeur of his verse, when every second word they meet with is a stumbling-block, that has to be sought out diligently in the lexicon ere they can understand the context? Instead of this inculcating a love for what they read, it breeds disgust. Even now, I confess, I cannot take an interest in William Tell, just because he, and his fellow Switzers, of Uri and elsewhere, will always be associated in my mind with so many lines of translation and repetition that I had to learn by heart at school."

"But, what would you give your pupils to study in lieu of such works?" she asked.

"Vividly interesting stories—novels, if you like—in the language they had to learn. Not short pieces, or 'elegant extracts;' but, good, long tales of thrilling adventure and well worked-up plots, whose interest, and the desire to know what was coming next, would make them read on and stammer out the sense, until they reached the denouement. And, if it should be objected that German and French novels are not exactly what you would place before young children for study, I would retort, that, the majority of the works of our best authors are now translated into both those languages almost as soon as they are published over here; let them read those! However, you were saying that you did not think German poetry pleasing or euphonious?"

"No," she said, "I do not; although, it may be owing to what you have remarked, that school study has given me a distaste for it. Still, you have now made me wish that I knew more of it. I think I will take it up again; and, perhaps, Mr Professor, under your tuition, I may learn better to like it."

"I should be only too glad, Min," I said, "to unfold its beauties to you; but, I'm the worst teacher in the world, and too impatient of blunders. Yet, I don't think I could be a very hard master to you" I added, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"Couldn't you?" she said. "I don't know about that, Master Frank! I well remember a particular evening, and my birthday party; and how a certain gentleman—whom I won't name—behaved then and since."

"Oh! Haven't you forgiven me yet, Min?" I exclaimed. "I thought—"

"Don't mind about that," she said, hurriedly.—"Go on with what you were telling me concerning German; the others will hear you! Do you think the language soft?"

"I can't say exactly that it is as soft as our own," I proceeded to say, for the benefit of Miss Spight, who appeared to be listening to our conversation.—"But, a good many people, who call the Teuton tongue uncouth, seem to forget its close resemblance both in style and expression, to English. Either language can be rendered in the vernacular of the other, without losing its force or even sound; and that is more than can be said for French or Italian. Shakspeare, for instance, in German, is almost equally as telling and forcible as Shakspeare in English; while, in French—Bah! you should just hear it as once I heard it, and you would laugh! Indeed, if we are strictly logical on the point of the euphony of language, the Italian dialect, which we deem so soft and liquid, sounds quite harsh, I'm told, in comparison with the labial syllables that the Polynesian islanders use in the South Seas."

We then relapsed into silence again, Min still leaning over the side of the boat and dipping her fingers in the limpid, silvery water, which sparkled with gem-like coruscations of light as she stirred it to and fro.

At Mortlake she splashed a shower of sprinkling pearls over an irate swan pater-familias, who had hurried out from the alders, to see what business we meant by coming at that time of night so near the domain of Mrs Swan and her cygnet progeny. We were both much amused at the fierce air with which he advanced, as if to eat us all up; and then, his precipitate retreat, on getting wetted so unceremoniously. He turned tail at once; and, propelling himself away with vigorous strokes of his webbed sculls, made the water foam from his prow-like curving neck, leaving a broad wake behind him of glistening sheen.

"What a nice day we have had," said Min, presently. "All has gone off so well, without a hitch. We have had such a nice talk, too. Why is it, I wonder," she continued, musingly, "that ordinary conversation is generally so empty and silly? Gentlemen appear to believe that ladies know nothing but about balls, and dancing, and the weather, and croquet! I do not mean, when we are all talking together, as to-day; but, when one is alone with them, and not one of a circle of talkers, they never say anything of any depth and reflection. Perhaps, when I go out, it is my fate to meet with exceptional partners at parties. But, I declare, they never utter a sensible remark! I suppose they think me very stupid, and not worth the trouble of seriously conversing to. Really, I imagine that gentlemen believe all girls to belong to an inferior order of intellect; and fancy that it is necessary for them to descend from their god-like level, in order to talk to them about such senseless trivialities as they think suited to their age and sex!"

"Perhaps it is not all the fault of the men," said I. "They are probably bashful, as most of us are."

"Bashful?" she replied; "I like that, Master Frank. Why, you are all a most intolerable set of conceited mortals! No, it is not that:—it is, because the 'lords of creation' think us beneath the notice of their superior minds."—And she tossed her little head proudly.

"Well, then," I said, "your duty is to draw us out. Many men are diffident of speaking earnestly and showing their feelings, from the fear of being laughed at, or ridiculed, as solemn prigs and book-worms. Ladies should think of this, and encourage us."

"Yet, some of you," she replied, undauntedly, "are not so reticent and retiring. There is Mr Mawley, for instance. He always talks to me about literature and art, and politics, too—although I do not care much about them—just as if I were a man like himself, and blessed with the same understanding!"

"Oh," said I, "the curate is usually fond of hearing himself talk!"

"You need not abuse poor Mr Mawley," she said, laughing. "'Those who live in glass houses,' you know, 'should not throw stones!' You are, also, not averse to airing your opinions, Master Frank! But, don't get angry—" she continued, as I slightly withdrew from her side, in momentary pique at hearing the curate's part taken.—"I like to hear you talk of such things, Frank, far better than if you only spoke to me of commonplace matters, as most gentlemen do, or dosed me with flattery, which I detest!"

"I do not talk so to everybody,"—I said, meaningly, coming closer to her again and taking one of her hands captive.—"Do you know why I like to let you know my deeper thoughts, Min, and learn more of my inner nature than others?" I whispered, bending over her.

"N-o!" she said, faintly, turning away her head.

"Because, Min—" I said, hesitatingly, almost abashed at my own rashness—"because, I—I—love you!"

She said nothing in reply; but she bent her head lower, so that I could not see her face; and, the little hand I held, trembled in my grasp.

At this point, too, our conversation was interrupted by the vicar asking Bessie Dasher and her sister to start the "Canadian Boat Song," in which we all joined in harmony:—the music, borne far and wide over the expanse of resonant water, sounding like some fairy chorus of yellow- haired sea-maidens, singing fathoms deep below in ocean caves!

When I was seeing her home, however, after we had all arrived at the vicarage, and separated severally with a cheerful "good-night," I was able to prosecute my wooing.

We were walking along side by side—she declined taking my arm, being shy, and quite unlike the frank, straightforward Min whom I had before known. I was not downhearted at this change, though:—I really felt shy, and nervous, myself!

As soon as we had got a safe distance from the others, and there was no fear of being overheard in the stillness of the night, I again spoke to her.

"Min," I said, "do you remember what I said to you just now when we were on the river?"

She made no answer; but, quickening her steps, walked on hurriedly, I still keeping pace by her side.

"Min, my darling," I said once more, "I love you dearer than life. Won't you try to like me a little in return? Won't you listen to me? Won't you hear me?"

"O-oh, Frank!" she exclaimed.

"Ever since I first saw you in church, so many long months ago, Min, I have thought of you, dreamt of you, loved you!"—I proceeded, passionately.—"O, my darling! my darling! won't you try and like me a little; or, have I been deceived in thinking that you could care for me?"

"I do like you, Frank," she said, softly, laying her little hand on my arm.

I seized it in transport, and put it within my arm proudly.

"Sweet!" I said, "liking alone will not do for me! You must learn to love me, darling, as I love you! Will it be very hard?"

"I don't know, Frank, I can try," she said, demurely; looking up at me with her deep, grey eyes, which, now suffused with a tender love-light, had a greater charm for me than ever.

I felt as if I were walking on air!

After a little pause, during which we both walked on slowly, I too happy to speak, Min squeezed my arm.

"Do you then love me so very much, Frank?" she said; and, there was a wistful look in her eyes, an earnest pathos in her voice, that touched me to the heart.

"Love you, Min? I adore you! I dote on you! I worship the very ground you walk on; and, if you were cruel to me, I think I would die to- morrow!"

"Poor fellow!" she said, pressing closer to my side.

"O, Min,"—I went on,—"if you only knew the agony I have suffered in thinking that you cared for some one else! I love you so much, that I am jealous of every word you speak, every glance of your darling eyes which is not directed to me. I envied my very dog the other day because you caressed him!"

"What!" she exclaimed, "Jealous of poor Catch! Do you know, Frank, that made me ove you first, your fondness for your dog and little Dicky Chips!"

"You do love me, then? O, Min, my darling!" I exclaimed in ecstasy.

"I didn't say so, did I?" she said, saucily. "Well, then," I entreated, "say it now, sweet! Say that you love me, my darling!"

"You are much too exacting, sir!"—she said, drawing herself up with the air of a haughty little Empress.—"I must consider your petition first."

"But you do love me, darling; so why cannot you say it? Tell me, pet, 'Frank, I love you;' and, you'll make me happy for ever!" I pleaded.

"I shan't be ordered," she said, with a piquante coquetry which made her appear all the more winning.—"I'm not going to tell you anything of the kind, for I won't be dictated to; but, I'll say 'I love you, Frank.' There! sir, will that please your lordship, although it is not in the exact words you have asked me?"—and she made a pretty little gesture of affected disdain.

"O Min, my love! my pet! my darling!"—said I, rapturously—

I stopped, breathless with emotion. I could not get out a word more!

We had now reached her door, and she said she must go in. I persuaded her, however, to wait a little while longer before she knocked, as I could not say 'Good-night' yet. Parting was too hard, though sweet. So, we talked on in whispers to one another for some minutes—it may have been hours, for all I know to the contrary—what might be to you only a lot of uninteresting talk, but, what was heaven to me!

"Good-night, Frank!" Min said at length. "I really must go in now, or mamma will think me lost. And, O Frank!" she exclaimed in alarm, as the sudden thought struck her—"what will she say when she hears of this!"

"Oh, never mind thinking of that now!" I said. "I will come round to- morrow afternoon, sweet, and ask her whether I may be allowed to hope, and win you for my own dear, darling little wife!"

We were standing close together in the porch, just under the gas-light. I was gazing into her eyes, which seemed to me ever so much brighter than the light of the lamp above us, or the stars overhead.

The little ear next me got quite pink.

She quickly bent down her head in confusion.

"You mustn't call me names, Frank!" she said. "I won't have it, sir! I won't have it! You have no right!"

I clasped her little hand firmly in mine.

"This belongs to me now, darling, does it not? You will be my own darling little wife, won't you?" I repeated.

She said nothing, but, after a moment, she raised her face to mine; and, as I bent down my head, and looked into her very soul, through the deep, honest, trusting, loving, grey eyes, our lips met in one long thrilling kiss.

It was a foretaste of paradise!

END OF FIRST VOLUME.