LITMIR.BIZ

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left him, and looks out to sea, with a troubled countenance; stares so long, and so lost in thought that it would seem as if he had forgotten his own party. It is not often that the young man has a moody fit, but he has it now, and very badly.

      But presently there comes down to him the faint sound of Leslie Lisle's soft, musical laugh – how striking a contrast to that of the young lady whom he has just got rid of! and he wakes from his unpleasant reverie and climbs up to the tower.

      The duke is leaning back with an amused and interested smile on his face, which is turned towards Leslie, and it is evident that he is happier and more contented than usual.

      "Miss Lisle has just been giving me a description of the Portmaris folks. You have missed something, Yorke," he says, with a laugh. "Have the savages disappeared?"

      "Quite," says Yorke; "and if Miss Lisle and her father would like to look round, the coast is now clear."

      "You go, papa," says Leslie, with her usual unselfishness; "and I will stay with Mr. Temple."

      The duke glances at her.

      "You will do nothing of the kind," he says. "I am not going to impose upon your good nature, Miss Lisle. Besides, I dare say, I shall take forty winks."

      Leslie hesitates a moment, then she gets up and goes for the easel; but Yorke is too quick for her.

      "Come along, Mr. Lisle," he says, touching him on the arm, while he stands looking from the edge of the tower absently, and the three descend.

      "Now, this strikes me as a good place," says Yorke, setting up the easel. "Don't know much about it you know, but it seems to me that the outline and the – ."

      "Excellent; yes, very good," assents the artist, eagerly getting out his drawing paper. "Yes, I can make a picture of this. You need not wait," he adds. "You will want to talk and – ."

      "I see," says Yorke. "Come along, Miss Lisle; we're evidently not wanted."

      They stroll away side by side, and slowly descend the grassy slope, which gradually becomes broken by rock, which kindly nature, who has always an eye to effect, has clothed with ferns and moss and lichen.

      "I suppose I ought to show you the hermit's cell?" says Leslie. "Everybody sees it."

      "By all means," he assents, but rather absently – the loud laugh of Finetta, the music-hall song are still echoing hideously in his ears. "Which hermit?"

      "Didn't you know?" she says, lightly stepping from stone to stone. "There was a hermit here once ever so long ago. Here is his cell," and she stops before a cavity in the rocks, a deliciously shady nook, overhung with honeysuckle and wild clematis which perfume the air.

      Yorke looks in. Somebody since the hermit's time, had been kind enough to fix a comfortable seat in the little cell, from which a delightful view of the sea and the cliff can be obtained.

      "Let us sit down while you tell me about him," he says.

      Leslie seats herself, and looks out at the greenery at her feet and wide-stretching blue of sea and sky beyond; and he takes his place beside her, but looks at her instead of the view. "The proper study of mankind is – woman."

      "There really was a hermit here ever so long ago," she says, dreamily. "They talk of him at Portmaris even now. He was a very great man in his time, but I am afraid not a very good one. It is said that he killed his best friend in a duel, and, that smitten with remorse for his crime and his foolish life, he vowed that he would never set eyes on mortal man again. So he came and lived in this cell, which he dug out with his own hands, and spent the rest of his life in prayer and meditation. Every day the village folks, and sometimes the pilgrims who visited his shrine, placed food on the ledge of the little window; but though they could hear his voice in prayer or singing hymns, no one ever saw his face, nor did he ever look out upon those who came to visit him."

      "He must have been fearfully unhappy," says Yorke, in a low voice, for the soft, subdued tones seem to cast a spell over him.

      "No, they say not; for he was often heard, especially after he had been living here for some years, to be singing cheerfully; but that was after he had received his sign."

      "His sign?" he asks.

      "Yes. He prayed that if Heaven forgave him his sins, and accepted his penitence, it would render the birds tame enough to come at his call."

      "And did they?"

      "Yes. The pilgrims to the shrine often saw a thin hand thrust through the window with a hedge sparrow or thrush perched upon it, and the rabbits, there were numbers of them, here, would come when he called, and let him feed them with the remains of his frugal fare. One day the village people received no answer when they called to him, not even the Pax Vobiscum, which amply repaid them for their pious charity. They waited two days, and then they entered the cell, and found him lying dead on his stone pallet, and a wild dove was resting on his breast. It flew away as they entered, but it was seen hovering about the cell for years afterward, and the Portmaris people say that a dove is always near here, even now."

      If Yorke had read the story of the Hermit of St. Martin in a book – he didn't read many books, unfortunately – it would not have affected him at all, but told by this lovely girl, in a voice hushed with sympathetic awe and reverence, it moves him strangely.

      "It's a pity there are not more hermits," he says, "a pity a man can't leave the world in which he has made himself such a nuisance, and have a little time to be quiet and repent."

      "Yes, your grace," assents Leslie.

      He looks at her quickly, and then away to the sea again.

      "I wonder whether you'd be offended if I asked a favor of you, Miss Lisle."

      "What is it?" she says, lightly. "In the old times the proper reply was, 'Yea, unto half my kingdom,' but I haven't any kingdom."

      "Oh, it isn't much," he says. "I was only going to ask you if you would be kind enough not to address me as 'your grace.'"

      Leslie looks at him with her slow smile, and a faint blush.

      "Is it wrong?" she asks, apologetically. "I didn't know. You see, I have not met many dukes."

      He strikes at the sandy pebbles which form the floor of the good hermit's cave, with his stick.

      "Oh – oh, it's right enough to call a duke 'your grace,'" he says, hurriedly, "but I'd rather you didn't call me so."

      "I'm glad it was right," she rejoins, with an air of relief. "I thought that perhaps I'd committed some awful blunder."

      "No, no," he says. "But don't, please. I have a decided objection to it. You see I'm rather a republican than otherwise – everybody is a republican nowadays, don't you know." Oh, Yorke, Yorke! "There will be no dukes or any other titles presently."

      "But until that time arrives what should one call you?" asks Leslie, not unreasonably. "Is 'my lord' right?"

      "It's better," he admits, "but I don't care much about that from friends, you know. I'm afraid you think it's rather presumptuous of me to call you a friend."

      "'An enemy' would sound rude and ungrateful after your and Mr. Temple's kindness," she says, as lightly as before.

      "My name is Yorke – one of 'em, and it's the name I like best. I dare say that you have noticed that Mr. – Mr. Temple calls me by it?"

      "Yes," says Leslie.

      "So it sounds more familiar to me, and – and nicer. I suppose a man has a right to be called what he likes."

      "I imagine so," says Leslie.

      "Then that's a bargain," he says, cheerfully, as if the matter were disposed of. "This place," he goes on, as if anxious to get away from the subject, "reminds me of Scotland a little bit. You only want a salmon river. I've spent many a day fishing and shooting in a solitude as complete as the hermit's. You get scared at last by the stillness and the silence, and begin to think that all creation has gone to sleep, and are afraid to move lest you should wake it; and then while you stand quite still beside the stream, something comes flitting down the mountain side – something with great antlers and big mournful eyes, and

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