Gerald lost his head. "It is", seplied Winifred; "have you brought any tidings of Thames Darrell!" "Troth have I!" replied Terence: "but, bless your angilic face, how did you contrive to guess that?" "Is he well?—is he safe?—is he coming back," cried the little girl, disregarding the question. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. I want you to be my lover.
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