Cuthbert was no adept in making flattering speeches; but eyes will tell what lips do not utter. Cicely felt her heart beat a little quicker as she met his earnest gaze; and after a moment's pause, during which she was busied in pinning the bow in its place, she said:

"This is pleasanter than the hay-field. There is an old tree where we can find a seat a few yards further on;" and then the next moment she had taken a turn deeper into the copse, and had lightly sprung upon the gnarled trunk of an old oak, which had but few branches, and these were only just putting out a few brownish-green leaves.

Cuthbert was about to balance himself on another bough of the distorted trunk, when Cicely screamed: "Look! look! there is an adder on my foot!" and Cuthbert saw, to his horror, the black and yellow body of an adder, gradually curling itself round the little foot which just touched the grass, as Cicely sat sideways on the tree, as she would have sat on a saddle.

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Keep still; do not move!" Cuthbert said. "Keep still, for heaven's sake!'

The creature had raised its head, and the next moment would have stung the little foot; but Cuthbert, with swift and unerring aim, seized it by the tail, and as it turned quickly to resent the interference with its small forked tongue shot out, he flung it a few yards away, and the next moment he had crushed it with the strong heel of his boot.

Cicely covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, the dreadful creature! I might have been stung, and then-then I should have died. A child in the village was bitten last year, and she died. Her arm swelled as big as her whole body."

"Let me help you down," Cuthbert said.

"Oh! do you think there is another adder in the grass and dead leaves? I am so frightened!"

Cicely had drawn up both feet now, and sat crouching on the seat, on which she had perched so lightly and so gracefully.

"Let me lift you over the long grass," Cuthbert said, "and then there will be nothing to fear."

He did not wait for a reply, but in a moment had raised Cicely in his arms and set her down on the path by the stile, which was well trodden, and where no adders could lie concealed. But a slow progress was made towards the house, and the dinner was served, and Mrs. Whinfield in a fluster at Cicely's delay, while her husband was only too well pleased to greet the truants with :

"Ah! You have been having a romantic stroll. Quite right-quite right."

"Yes; upon my word, Cuthbert is the luckiest young dog in the world," said Mr. Rollestone.

"But he can't live on romance, though," said Mr. Whinfield. "Come, wife; I hope you'll get one of your best dinners served. Why, Cicely! Whither away? Well, well; we won't wait. She is gone to wash her cheeks with buttermilk, I'll warrant."

"Indeed, sir," Cuthbert said. "Miss Cicely has had an unpleasant adventure in the copse. An adder came so near as to be dangerous, and in another moment would have stung her foot."

"The brute! I'll give a reward for adders' skins, as I did last year. I believe there were as many as three dozen caught by the lads first and last," said Mr. Whinfield. "I dare say it gave the girl a bad turn. Can't you take her some of your salts or something, Prue ?”

"Best leave her to herself," said Mrs. Whinfield, "and come to dinner; it's pretty near spoilt as it is."

CHAPTER III.

THE LACE-MAKER.

KATHARINE PERRY, the miller's daughter, was busy one bright afternoon, ten days after the visit of the father and son to the Pleasaunce, arranging the teatable in the pretty home-like parlour of the millhouse. Katharine had been sent to the boardingschool at Bedford in compliance with her aunt's wishes.

The miller himself would have preferred that her education should have begun and ended as her mother's had done before her.

The beautifully-worked sampler, which was framed and hung over the wide mantelshelf, was surely a trophy of her capabilities which no pupil of Miss Perkins could rival. But Katharine's aunt succeeded in convincing the miller that Katharine should have the advantages which he could well afford to give her.

"No doubt," she said, "poor dear Mary's acquirements were sufficient for her-a penniless girl, who had been so fortunate as to win the miller's love;

but for his daughter-his eldest daughter-higher things were naturally desirable."

So Katharine had learned to play the harpsichord, and to embroider and do all those things which Cicely, the Squire's daughter, had included in her finishing at Miss Perkins'. To dance and to play were, it would seem, rather useless accomplishments for Katharine, whose father came of a strict race of Dissenters, and who, though himself a member of the Church, greatly preferred the ministrations of the Vicar of Olney in his own barn to the service in the church.

Once a week did Mr. Newton come to Lavendon Mill, partake of a family meal of hot cakes and tea, spread with liberal abundance, and then repair to the barn with his host and conduct a service of prayer and praise there.

Katharine Perry was a great contrast to her friend, Cicely Whinfield. She was of the Saxon type of maiden, with quantities of fair hair, a little inclined to be red, a pink and white complexion, and large and rather languishing blue eyes.

Her figure was round and full, and she had none of the elastic grace of movement which characterized her friend. She was sweet-tempered and kindly, and bore very patiently with her aunt's continual reminder that she was to remember her position and not go and demean herself by associating right and left with the tradespeople of Olney.

Miss Perry had ambitious views, and never re