did. I cannot promise to give up the hope that one day you may look

upon my heart’s desire with favour. But, so long as you forbear to urge any other alliance on me, I promise to your love, that I will not grieve you by any further steps in this direction.”

“And you will not seek an interview with this young woman without my full permission?”

Philip paused a moment while love and duty, or rather while two loves, fought a hard battle in his soul, and then the love that was allied with duty won the day, and he said, “Father, I will not.”

The father rose from his seat, bent forward, and kissed him on the brow. “Philip,” said he, “I bless you. God will bless you for that word.”

Squire Fuller’s next step was to despatch a note to Nathan Blyth, for he felt that no stone must be left unturned to assure the victory he had gained. A short time afterwards, therefore, the blacksmith received the following epistle:--

“SIR,--It has come to my knowledge that my son has been foolish enough to commit himself, by a stupid profession of love, to your daughter. Though this is doubtless a young man’s whim, and a mere passing fancy, I greatly object to it, and he has promised me that he will desist from what I am sure you will agree with me in describing as unseemly and improper. I write this _private_ communication in order to suggest to your daughter that she should not encourage such a wild dream, and that you will use your authority in keeping her out of his way. I trust I have said nothing herein to give you offence, and am, &c.,

“AINSLEY FULLER.”

When Nathan Blyth had read the letter twice through, he bade the messenger to wait, and speedily sent the following missive in return:--

“SIR,--You cannot be more glad than I am that Master Philip has made the promise to which you refer. Nothing is more contrary to my desire than that he should ever speak to her again. And permit me respectfully to assure you that my daughter has given him no encouragement; and, without the exertion of any authority of mine, will not only not seek, but will repel any advances on his part. Both she and I are agreed that nothing could be more lamentable than to suffer any such forgetfulness of the difference between his position and ours. You may rest assured that no encouragement, but the direct opposite, will always be given to such an act of folly.

“I am, Sir, yours respectfully,

“NATHAN BLYTH.”

Squire Fuller could hardly believe his own eyes as he read the letter, couched in such fitting language, so eminently respectful, and especially so gratifying in its contents. He had imagined that Nathan and his daughter would have regarded Philip as a prize to be hooked, if possible, and had written his note with a view to crush out the faintest hope of success in their plot for Lucy’s aggrandisement. He felt such a sense of satisfaction and relief that he resolved to ride over to the forge and express his thanks and pleasure to the writer.

The next morning, therefore, the stately squire bestrode his favourite grey mare, and took his morning ride in the direction of Blithe Natty’s house. That cheerful knight of the hammer was busy at his post, and the ringing anvil, as usual, was accompanied by his musical and sonorous song.

Wherever my fortune may lead me, Whate’er sort of hap it may bring, The blessing of God will still speed me, And this is the song I will sing--

Away with all fear and repining, Away with all doubting and grief: On the bosom of Jesus reclining, He’ll never withhold me relief.

Affliction will come, if He sends it, Or sorrow my portion may be; I’ll cheerfully bear till He ends it, Till I His salvation shall see.

With loving and honest endeavour, Still striving my duty to do, I’ll love Him and trust Him for ever, For ever be honest and true.

The sun in the heavens is shining, Though clouds may oft gather below, Each one has a silvery lining, And rains down a gift as I go.

The streamlet runs clear o’er the gravel, The breezes blow pure o’er the lea; Just so in my course would I travel, With Jesus to journey with me.

I want neither honour nor riches, I care not for rank or for gold; For this kind of fortune bewitches The soul--at least so I’ve been told.

Contented and happy and healthy, Pray why should I covet or sigh, To be titled or famous or wealthy? Can any man answer me why?

But one thing through life will I covet-- To hate the whole compass of wrong; To do aye the right and to love it, To sing as I travel along.

Wherever my fortune may lead me, Whate’er sort of hap it may bring, The blessing of God will aye speed me, And so as I travel I sing.

Such was the blithe and cheery ditty which Nathan Blyth was chanting when Squire Fuller rode up to the smithy door.

“Good morning, Blyth,” said he; “it’s a good sign when people sing at their work. One would conclude that it’s neither too hard nor ill paid.”

“And yet, sir,” said Nathan, “I have known people who worked too hard for low wages, and yet could sing all the same.”

“Indeed! I imagine they must have been endowed by nature with a marvellous flow of spirits,” said the squire.

“No, sir, not specially, but they were endowed by God with a marvellous flow of grace. You know the old proverb sir,--

‘Godly grace makes greatly glad, It makes him sing who once was sad.’”

“And you believe that this ‘grace of God,’ as you call it, helps you to sing, do you, Blyth?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nathan, warmly; “I have a good conscience, a sense and assurance of my Saviour’s love, and a bright hope of heaven. God’s providence has filled my cup brimfull with blessings, and if I did not sing His praises the very stones might well cry out.”

All this was beyond the belief or comprehension of Squire Fuller, and Natty might have answered his dubious look by the words of the Samaritan woman, “Thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep.”

“Well, well,” said he, “I am heartily glad, at any rate, that you can take life so brightly. It certainly would be a thousand pities if that grand voice of yours was to rust for want of practice.”

“Yes, there’s something in that, too,” said Nathan, with a smile.

‘To help the voice full clear to ring. Go out into the woods and sing.’

“I don’t go out into the woods to do it, but the pitch of my anvil-ring keeps me up to tone, and the practice is quite as good.”

“Allow me to thank you, Blyth, for that very courteous and satisfactory note you sent me yesterday. I own that it was not altogether what I expected. I suspected--I imagined--I thought--that--that”----and the squire felt that he was dealing stupidly with a very delicate subject.

“Yes, I know,” said Nathan Blyth; “you imagined that the blacksmith and his daughter were fishing for the heir of Waverdale Park, and you hoped quietly to convince them that it was a losing game. I’m not offended at that; I suppose it was natural that you should do so. But be sure, sir, that I dread the idea, and hate it, too, quite as much as you do. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in my conscience that my Lucy is in all respects a prize that any man might wish to win, and I know none for whom I do not hold her to be too good. But I’d rather she mated with somebody in her own rank of life. I should say ‘No’ to Master Philip if he asked for her himself, and I should say ‘No’ to you if you were to ask for him; and if he is a sensible young man, he’ll turn his attention other where, for he may depend upon it he’ll come on a useless errand, if he comes at all.”

Human nature is a queer article, and the squire’s feelings as he heard this would have been difficult to analyse. His satisfaction was great at the thought that there was no fear of counter-plotting, but, strange to say, he felt more than half inclined to feel insulted. Here was a grimy smith, with naked arms and leather apron, standing, hammer in hand, by his smithy fire, coldly intimating that his daughter was too dainty a prize for his own son, and scorning the bare idea of such an alliance with as much independence as if he were a “belted earl.” The blue blood surged a little in the veins of the stately squire, but, restraining himself, he was fain to be content with facts, and, mounting his horse, he bade the sturdy Vulcan a cold and distant “Good-morrow,” and betook him to his ancestral park.