ing her—by the pride of making the sacrifice for her. As my heart swelled with that new feeling, it insensibly softened about mother and father. It seemed to have been frozen before, and now to be thawed. The old ruin and all the lovely things that haunted it were not sorrowful for me only, but sorrowful for motlier and father as well. Therefore did I cry again, and often too.
The farm-house family conceived me to be of a morose temper, and were very short with me; though they never stinted me in such broken fare as was to be got out of regular hours. One night, when I lifted the kitchen latch at my usual time, Sylvia (that was her pretty name) had but just gone out of the room. Seeing her ascending the opposite stairs, I stood still at the door. She had heard the clink of the latch, and looked round.
"George," she called to me in a pleased voice, "tomorrow is my birthday ; and we are to have a fiddler, and there's a party of boys and girls coming in a cart, and we shall dance. I invite you. Be sociable for once, George."
"I am very sorry, miss," I answered; "but I—but, no; I can't come."
"You are a disagreeable, ill-humored lad," she returned disdainfully; "and I ought not to have asked you. I shall never speak to you again."
As I stood with my eyes fixed on the fire, after she was gone, I felt that the farmer bent his brows upon me.
"Eh, lad!" said he, "Sylvy's right. You're as moody and broody a lad as never I set eyes on yet."
I tried to assure him that I meant no harm; but he only said coldly, "May be not, may be not! There! get thy supper, get thy supper; and then thou canst sulk to thy heart's content again."
Ah! if they could have seen me next day, in the ruin, watching for the arrival of the cart full of merry young guests; if they could have seen me at night, gliding out from behind the ghostly statue, listening to the music and the fall of dancing feet, and watching the lighted farm-house windows from the quadrangle when all the ruin was dark; if they could have read my heart, as crept up to bed by the back way, comforting myself with the reflection, "They will take no hurt from me,"—they would not have thought mine a morose or an unsocial nature.
