carried all before it. Susan was sweet tempered
and simple hearted, of a yielding disposition,
and, though not unconscious of her beauty,
singularly little spoilt by the consciousness. She
gave her whole heart to the faithful earnest
man whom she reverenced as her superior
in moral strength, if not in outward circumstances.
They exchanged no rings on the
balmy evening which witnessed their plighted
faith, but he took from her hat the garland
of hops she had laughingly twisted round
it, and looking down upon her sweet face
with a great love in his brown eyes, whispered,
"I shall keep this whilst I live, and have
it buried with me when I die!"

But, there was a certain Geoffrey Gibbs,
the owner of the "Place" on Cumner Common,
who had paid, and was still paying,
marked attention to the beautiful Susan. This
man, originally in trade, had chanced, some years
before, to see in the newspapers a notice that if
he would apply to a certain lawyer in London,
he would hear of something greatly to his
advantage. He did so, and the result was, his
acquisition of a comfortable independence, left
him by a distant kinsman whom he had never
so much as seen. This windfall changed his
whole prospects and manner of life, but not his
character, which had always been that of an
unmitigated snob. In outward circumstances,
however, he was a gentleman living on his
income, and, as such, the undoubted social
superior of the Archers, who were simply
tenant-farmers. Hence their desire that Susan
should favour his suit. Some people were of
opinion, that he had no serious intention of
marrying the girl; and Susan herself always
encouraged this notion; adding, that were he
ten times as rich, and a hundred times as devoted
as he represented himself to be, she would die
rather than accept the cross-grained monster.

He was frightful; less from defects of feature
than from utter disproportion of form,
and a sinister expression of countenance, far
worse than actual ugliness. His legs were as
short as his body and hands were long, while
his head would have been well suited to the
frame of a Hercules; giving him a top-heavy
appearance that was singularly ungraceful.
His eyebrows were shaggy and overhanging,
his eyes small and malicious looking, his nose
was beak-shaped, his mouth immense, with
thick sensual lips. He wore huge false-looking
chains, outrageous shirt-pins and neckcloths, and
cutaway sporting coats of astounding colours.
He was a man who delighted in frightening
inoffensive females, in driving within an inch
of a lady's pony-carriage, or in violently
galloping past some timid girl on horseback,
and chuckling at her scared attempts to
restrain her plunging steed. Like all bullies, he
was of course a coward at heart.

Between this man and George Eade a keen
hatred existed. George despised as well as
detested Gibbs. Gibbs envied as much as he
abhorred the more fortunate peasant, who was
beloved where he met with nothing but coldness
and rebuffs.

Susan's heart was indeed wholly George's, yet
it was only when her health had again begun to
fail, that her father was frightened into a most
unwilling consent to their union; which consent
no sooner became known to Mr. Malcolmson,
than he voluntarily raised the young man's wages,
and undertook to put in repair for him a cottage
of his own, not far from that of Simon Eade.

But, when the news of the approaching marriage
reached the ears of Gibbs, his jealous fury
was aroused to the utmost. He rushed down
to the Plashetts, and, closeting himself with
Mr. Archer, made brilliant offers of settlement
on Susan, if she would consent even now
to throw over her lover, and become his wife.
But he only succeeded in distressing the girl,
and tantalising her father. Willingly, indeed,
would the latter have acceded to his wishes, but
he had passed his solemn word to George, and
Susan held him to it. No sooner, however, was
Gibbs gone, than the old man burst into loud
lamentations over what he called her
self-sacrifice; and her eldest brother coming in,
joined in reproaching her for refusing prospects
so advantageous. Susan was weak, and easily
influenced. She was cut to the heart by their
cruel words, and went out to meet her lover
with her spirits depressed, and her eyes red
and swollen. George, shocked at her appearance,
listened with indignation to her agitated
recital of what had passed.

"Keep your carriage, indeed!" he exclaimed,
with bitter scorn. "Does your father make
more count of a one-horse shay than of true
love such as mine? And a fellow like Gibbs,
too! That I wouldn't trust a dog with!"

"Father don't see it so," the girl sobbed out.
"Father says he'd make a very good husband,
once we was married. And I'd be a lady, and
dress fine, and have servants! Father thinks
so much of that!"

"So it seems; but don't you be led by him,
Susan, darling! 'Tisn't riches and fine clothes
that makes folks' happiness—'tis better things!
See here, my girl——" He stopped short, and
faced her with a look of unutterable emotion. "I
love ye so true, that if I thought—if I thought
it'd be for your good to marry this fellow—if I
thought ye'd be happier with him than with me,
I'd—I'd give ye up, Susan! Yes—and never
come near ye more! I would indeed!"

He paused, and, raising his hand with a gesture
that had in it a rude solemnity very
impressive, repeated once more, "I would indeed!
But ye'd not be happy with Geoffrey Gibbs.
Ye'd be miserable—ill-used, perhaps. He ain't
a man to make any woman happy—I'm as sure
o' that, as that I stand here. He's bad at heart
—downright cruel. And I!—what I promise,
I'll act up to—O! steady. I'll work for you,
and slave for you, and—and love you true!"

He drew her towards him as he spoke, and
she, reassured by his words, nestled lovingly to
his side. And so they walked on for some
moments in silence.

"And, darling," he added, presently, "I've
that trust—that faith—in me—that once we're
married, and you're mine—safe—so's no one can