said; "thy business had best not touch such matters."

He

"Nevertheless I spoke truth. hath made love to thee, and thouthou hast bewitched him till I know him not. Now hark 'e! Do'st know the name of him who stands on London Bridge at sundown and juggles for the people's sport?" A ring of suppressed wrath sounded in the words.

"Hath he acquainted thee with his name, good Mistress Davenport ?"

The man could see two little hands cling to the wooden sill-tight-tight.

"Ay! I know his name," she answered, "though he told me not. Look you, I saw the passing of the great Duke's funeral, and the gentles who followed clothed in black velvet. Thy master rode with them, unmasked. One near me in the crowd pointed to him jestingly and said Yonder goes the young Lord of Yelverton, who hath squandered more gold crown pieces and rose-nobles than any dandy of them all, from London to Land's End.' 'Twas so I learned thy master's name, good sir."

66 "I can'st not tell thee how it went, but, marry, 'twas like water through a sieve, or sand through the fingers. The whole world was his friend then, though none cared for him, for himself alone, but just old Michael.

"The lad had ever been ungovernable save by his mother's gentleness, and there were plenty to lead him from her memory. It went like a fairy tale, Mistress Davenport, for my master was as much at home in France as England, and everywhere had a gay company at his heels. He lived like a Prince of the blood, and when the foreign moneys were spent, saddled the home estates with grievous debt. When all went the same road he shipped to America with some of Sir Walter Raleigh's men,-I following

ever."

"Nay!" she cried, with soft eagerness. "Nay, tell me, I pray thee;

'tis best thou should'st."

"Listen then," answered the man with a quick glance around.

See

"He thou knowest as the juggler, is indeed the young Lord of Yelverton. Soft-I would not be overheard, and the watch cometh by. Now again. 'Tis also true he hath played fast and loose with two goodlie fortunes. you-when he came of age there were none to advise or control. 'Twas in this wise my Lord and my Lady, Heaven rest them, died within short space of each other leaving no lawful guardian for the lad. There was not one in England near of kin, therefore the Crown appointed Lord Dudley to the care of the young master and estates. My Lord troubled but little over the matter, and the lad grew up without control of any, a bit wild, yet sweet in temper. When at one-and

finished ?"

"Twas upon that long voyage," he continued that my Lord learned from a queer Indian fellow of the East, brown limbed and supple as willow, the curious tricks of throwing balls and knives-ay! an' many another folly which goeth for magic. 'Twas a pastime when the sea lay like a blue mirror and the sun warmed idle sails and a quiet deck."

The old fellow stopped breathlessly, and drew his hand across his eyes as though to dispel some vision.

"Tell me all and quickly," said the girl, "the hour flyeth."

"Yes, yes; have patience, sweet lady. The story is hard to unravel. We returned again to England after a year of wandering in the strange New World-an 'tis now thou needst listen. Not long since came word that an old friend of Lord Yelverton's father, one Frazer of Dundee (a dour man-an o'er strange in many ways), was dead,

an' had bequeathed all his horde of wealth to my master. Ah! but there it did not end. There were conditions, mark you!"

The old voice stopped. And in the pause came the sound of Joyce Davenport's heart beating quick, quick, like a bird against cage bars.

"Full well did old Frazer of Dundee know my Lord Harry and his spend

thrift ways. The conditions were

these, therefore, as the man of law read I listening also :

When Lord Henry Yelverton, by the craft of his hand, earneth twenty golden guineas in the space of one month then shall he enter into full possession of all land and moneys mentioned in the said will; provided also that he wed upon the same day the niece of Donald Frazer, who was also his ward and rich in her own right.'

"This, sweet Mistress Davenport, read the man of law in my hearing-with much mouthing of words that have slipped my memory."

"O, hasten, hasten, good Master Michael," cried the girl. "Is there aught else?"

"I' faith just this much. My young Lord laughed long, and as at a jest when he heard. 'I have a craft, Sir lawyer,' he said, 'an honest one in sooth, whereby I can earn the gold right merrily-if so be Michael will but pass around his chapeau. But I doubt me 'tis such an one as would have pleased the sainted Scot.'

'No especial craft is specified in the document,' said the man of law. Then was I born under a lucky star! But the maid: Beshrew me! Why did he throw in the maid? Could'st not have put in a word to save a man? I beseech thee, sweet lawyer, draw me her picture. An' it be not to my liking, I'd let the King's crown go by before I'd wed her.' Those, fair lady, were his very words."

Joyce gave a little laugh and caught the old man's arm.

"Said he so?" she cried. "Art sure?"

"Ay!" an' that was a month back. He hath earned the gold-but-he hath also seen thee. An' but yestere'en said he thus to me, in all earnestness,

'The game is up, my trusty Michael, and I am where I was before.""

"Be quick," she said breathlessly. "I see a shadow yonder, perchance the watch returneth, or thou hast wearied Silas, or 'tis my father."

"Ay!" again he panted; "this said my master, 'There is no heart left in me to go to Scotland and wed old Frazer's ward. A plague on him for throwing in the maid. 'Twould plant a thorn in every golden rose-noble of them all. Nay then I will not wed her for my heart hath found its heritage here on London Bridge! A pearl washed up by old Father Thames that all the world passed unseeing. And 'tis the little maid of Davenport that may be my Lady of Yelverton an' she will-though there be not a groat behind the title-'

See then, sweet mistress, 'tis on thy pity I throw myself. I doubt not he said all this to thee-but take him not at his word. Indeed 'twould be his undoing. Dost not understand 'tis the turn of the tide with him now? With the Scottish wealth all debts could be wiped away from the old castle, and the name kept pure in England. And thy father, knowest thou not he lived but by the grace of the Queen? 'Tis a marriage not to be entertained, though in truth my lord meant his words. Is it not enough that he play to the people, while I scorn the money I take? Have pity, sweet lady, for I know his moods. He is in deadly earnest, now, an' thou only canst save him. An' thou turn'st him off lightly, then perchance will he away to the north country and trouble be ended."

"Go," she said, looking out into the old white eager face. "I will not answer thee now-it need'th thought. Thy limbs tremble, good Sir. My father speaketh with Silas at the gate. Hasten, hasten !"

Soon Davenport came stumbling to the door. He called in quick, angry fashion for Joyce.

"Who is it that talk'st with thee after I am away Hark'e, make no excuse."

"It is my Lord of Yelverton. Hast aught against him? Thou knowst his name surely; 'tis an old one in the country," she answered.

"Lord Yelverton !" he said thickly. "Is't so? Dost mean it? How camest thou to meet one of title? Thou hast been a caged beauty of late, also," turning up her face with one hand, and looking down into it with angry blood-shot eyes.

"Thou know'st I never speak aught but truth," she said gravely.

"Ay! little one, thy word is thy bond always, but report said 'twas the brown juggler at bridge-foot, who had found thee out." Then his face changing: "In any case 'twill not do, Mistress Joyce; 'twill not do; Yelverton hath not a sou to his title. There is Ted Gillian. See thou turn'st him not away when he come'th on the morrow.

I

father," she cried, "I desire not to marry any one of them if thou wilt but be kind an' have me bide with thee. Let us away from London Bridge. am overweary of the crowd ever going by, an' of the endless noise an' turmoil. The bridge is worn and breaking, soon will the Queen have it rebuilt grandly, so say the gossips. I am weary of it, of the sights of it, and the dreadful heads blackening in the sunlight. Thou may'st not always have the toll-house. Let us away then now to some quiet place; to the new country, dear father. The ships pass out at morning and evening. O, say

thou wilt go with thy little Joyce, an' speak no more of marrying."

Davenport shook her away, but half comprehending the drift of her words.

"This time thou art mad," he said. "Thou art surely mad; an' thou always wert a strange maid. To thy bed, and rest! To thy bed and rest."

The girl went slowly away to her room and stood looking out at the wide, dark river, dappled here and there with silver from the late rising moon. Down her face fell a rain of tears, unheeded.

"There is no other way," she said half aloud. "Yet I would there were. 'Ted Gillian!' with a catch in her breath, Ted Gillian!' O, I needed not that. To-morrow night at nine o' the clock will he come again, my Lord of Yelverton, an' I might go with him an' I would. Nay, 'twould be but a selfish love an' I went. I can remember his words, though I understood them not: 'Two roads lie before me, little maid; one dark and tiresome—even monotonous to desperation; the other through a green country, where the air is golden an' the sky the shade of thine eyes. Thou wilt be by my side there, an' if joy comes t'will be greater with thee to share it; an' if sorrow, then I'll take thy part as well as my own. So, sweetheart, 'tis a fair journey lies in that direction. Would'st throw in thy lot with a strolling juggler who hath but love to give thee?""

No, no! There was no time for thought, and 'twas needless, for her mind was firmly set. Love was not love to her that harmed the thing it worshipped.

Yet all possibility of life in the old house by the north tower was over.

Tying the green cloak about her she went silently down the leaning stairs, through the quiet room and out into the darkness. One of the dogs followed, a small tangle-haired thing with eyes great and melancholy.

On the bridge towers flamed the dying links, and the moon was sinking. There was a mackerel sky that night, and little broken clouds tinted with violet floated now and then across the "silver shield of heaven."

Joyce stood looking at it all, her hands clasped, her head thrown back. "Tis a beautiful, beautiful world," she said, as though to the tiny dog pressing his rough head against her white gown. "Methinks t'could not be fairer-even beyond-" Then stooping she patted the trembling animal. "Thou art a good little friend," said the girl softly, "a good little friend in sooth. But thou canst not bear me company to-night. Nay, plead not. I will not let thee come. Away to thy corner, away, away!"

So she watched, till he turned towards the house in obedient sadness. Not far off there were some steps, unsteady with age and worn in hollows, that led to the water. These she ran down swiftly, and unfastened a shallow punt that lay moored to them.

An old waterman who had known her long, stood near by, having been late at

work. At first he thought it was a spirit, then chiding his fancies went nearer and saw Joyce Davenport untying the knotted rope. He called, and the girl answered nothing, but pushed off into the open river.

She stood quite still then and let the boat follow the tide. Out it went, out and out-below the arch-under the bridge-beyond. The old man saw her still standing, tall and white. He tried to call again but his heart beat hard and hard so that no sound would

come.

Then she stepped to the edge of the little craft, and so into the river, with her arms out, and her face turned upward.

The water eddied and rippled, eddied and rippled, and was still. The punt tossed a moment; then floated slowly on alone.