"But he's not looking, and oh, Cleone,--how can I bear to leave you

so soon? You are more to me than anything else in the world. You are

my life, my soul,--my honor,--oh my dear!"

"Do you--love me so very much, Barnabas?" said she, with a sudden

catch in her voice.

"And always must! Oh my dear, my dear,--don't you know? But indeed,

words are so small and my love is so great that I fear you can never

quite guess, or I tell it all."

"Then, Barnabas,--you will go?"

"Must I, Cleone? It will be so very hard to lose you--so soon."

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"But a man always chooses the harder course, doesn't he, Barnabas?

And, dear, you cannot lose me,--and so you will go, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll go--because I love you!"

Then Cleone drew him deeper into the shade of the willows, and with

a sudden, swift gesture, reached up her hands and set them about his

neck.

"Oh my dear," she murmured, "oh Barnabas dear, I think I can

guess--now. And I'm sure--the boy--can't see us--here!"

No, surely, neither this particular brook nor any other water-brook,

stream or freshet, that ever sang, or sighed, or murmured among the

reeds, could ever hope to catch all the thrilling tenderness of the

sweet soft tones of Cleone's voice.

A brook indeed? Ridiculous!

Therefore this brook must needs give up attempting the impossible,

and betake itself to offensive chuckles and spiteful whisperings,

and would have babbled tales to the Duchess had that remarkable,

ancient lady been versed in the language of brooks. As it was, she

came full upon Master Milo still intent upon the heavens, it is true,

but in such a posture that his buttons stared point-blank and quite

unblushingly towards a certain clump of willows.

"Oh Lud!" exclaimed the Duchess, starting back, "dear me, what a

strange little boy! What do you want here, little man?"

Milo of Crotona turned and--looked at her. And though his face was

as cherubic as ever, there was haughty reproof in every button.

"Who are you?" demanded the Duchess; "oh, gracious me, what a pretty

child!"

Surely no cherub--especially one in such knowing top-boots--could be

reasonably expected to put up with this! Master Milo's innocent brow

clouded suddenly, and the expression of his glittering buttons grew

positively murderous.

"I'm Viscount Devenham's con-fee-dential groom, mam, I am!" said he

coldly, and with his most superb air.

"Groom?" said the Duchess, staring, "what a very small one, to be

sure!"

"It ain't inches as counts wiv 'osses, mam,--or hany-think else, mam,

--it's nerves as counts, it is."

"Why, yes, you seem to have plenty of nerve!"

"Well, mam, there ain't much as I trembles at, there ain't,--and

when I do, I don't show it, I don't."




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