MERCANTILE LIBRARY;

OF NEW YORK.

DIANA WENTWORTH.

PROLOGUE.

Ir was an exquisite summer evening, not moonlight, but not yet dark, so that the young man and woman walking slowly along the West Fields could still dimly see each other's features. They were very young: he looked about twenty, she could not be more than seventeen. He had a tall, well-made figure, and a face which expressed resolution and a certain degree of pride, although his clothing was that of a country workman, and his speech bewrayed him as a dweller among the hills. The girl was very pretty, with soft brown hair, and eyes which were alternately appealing and roguish. One sought in vain in her features for some sign of the high purpose which animated his, yet, in spite of this want, it was a very winning face. She wore neither bonnet nor shawl, so that it was easy to see that her figure was slighter and more upright than is the case with most girls of her class, and the arrangement of her dress bespoke an evident knowledge and appreciation of her advantages. She had slipped her hand through the young man's arm, and rather nestled against him as they walked along. The light was fading fast; the river rushing at the foot of the cliffs, on the top of which they were walking, made its presence known to the ear rather than the eye; the outlines of the hills, which rose around them on all sides, were becoming dim; the woods on the other side of the valley were an indistinct mass. They had walked for a long time before they began to speak. Then the man said:

"It's a bonny spot, Mary, lass; I shall often think of it when I am far away."

4

"Eh, John," she answered, with a little toss of her head, “you are a queer fellow. Any one else would have told me they would think of me."

"I shall think of you. This place and you are so bound up in my mind, I can't think of one without the other. We have walked here so often together."

"An' now I mun walk alone.

boun' to go to-morrow, John ?"

It'll be dree work. Are you

"Yes; I'm off in the morning, as soon as it's light. I shall walk to Bellingham, and take the train from there."

"And you can't tell when you'll be back?"

"Nay, how can I tell? I've my fortune to make; but as soon as I can come back, I will."

"You

"I doubt it will be a long time to wait," she said, with a sigh. "And what if it is?" he answered, rather quickly. won't be waiting alone; I shall be keeping you company, though I am a long way off. You don't think you'll get tired of waiting, Mary?" he concluded, rather anxiously.

"No," she answered, "no; I won't get tired, though it is a dull place, and there is very little to see. But I shall be glad when you've made your fortune; then you'll be a rich man, and I shall be a lady."

"It's not only riches as makes ladies and gentlemen," he said; "it's many a lot of other things besides; and I doubt if ladies and gentlemen is any happier than us poor folk. They've just as hard a time in many ways, and I can't tell why you hanker after it so. A good, honest, working-woman's better than an idle fine lady; and if you were a lady, Mary, you would be an idle one, I fear you're not fond of work," he concluded, half playfully.

"No," said Mary, "I'm not. It's a life as would suit me finely, to ride i' my carriage and do nothing all day, because there was servants to do the work. Eh, I should like to have servants, and to keep my hands white and clean."

He laughed at her tone of enthusiasm, and then said, more gravely:

"I can promise you servants, if you will only have a bit of patience. And now, Mary, we must say good-bye. Here we are at your father's farm, and they will be angry with me if I keep you out any longer. Promise me once more to be true."