looking upon me as the greatest enemy he had in the world till he heard me decline the post.”
“You?—you declined the post, Luke?”
“Yes, I declined the post.”
“And you told me you loved me,” she said, reproachfully, as she drew back.
“As I do with all my heart,” he cried, taking her hand, and drawing it through his arm once more. “Sage, dear, it is because I love you so well that I have declined to take the school.”
“When it was so near,” she cried; and her tears seemed to have stolen into her voice. “And now you will go and take a school ever so far away. Oh, Luke,” she cried, piteously, “it is too bad!”
“Hush, little one,” he said, firmly. “It is not like you to talk like that. I shall not take a school far away, though I shall have to leave you. Sage, dear, I have felt that I must give up present pleasure for a future joy.”
“I—I—don’t understand you,” she cried; “your talk is all a puzzle to me.”
“Is it, dear? There, it shall not be long. You know what your uncle said to me the other day?”
“Oh, yes, Luke; but I don’t think he quite meant it.”
“I am sure he did mean it,” he replied; “and he is quite right. For the past year I have been learning lessons of self-denial, and been taught to place the schoolmaster’s duty above questions of a pecuniary kind; but your uncle has placed my position in a practical light, and, Sage, dear, it is as if all the past teaching has been undone.”
“Oh, Luke, Luke,” she cried, “don’t talk like that!”
“I must. I have had another talk with your uncle. This morning I overtook him, and he asked me, as a man, whom he says he can trust, to set aside all love-making, as he called it in his homely Saxon-English, and to treat you only as a friend! ‘Let matters stand for the present, and see what a couple of years bring forth, if you are doing well,’ he said, ‘in your new position.’ ”
“In your new position, Luke? Why, what do you mean?”
“Sage, dear, I have decided to set aside the idea of being the master of a school.”
“Oh, Luke!”
“And to read for the bar.”
“Read for the bar?”
“Yes, read for the bar: become a barrister; and I shall work hard to win a name.”
“But the school, Luke—the training college. It is not honest to take advantage of their teaching, gain all you can, and then take to some other career.”
“You think that?” he said, smiling. “Yes, of course,” she said, indignantly. “The principal at Westminster spoke very warmly about two of the students giving up their schools directly, and taking situations as governesses in good families.”
“I quite agree with her,” said Luke, quietly; “and I have appraised the cost to the institution at fifty pounds. That sum I feel bound to send. It is quite as much as so bad a master as I should have turned out is worth.”
“Oh, Luke, that is nonsense,” she cried, as she looked proudly in his face.
“Nay,” he said, “it is truth. And now listen to me. This has all been very sudden.”
“Yes, and you never said a word to me.”
“I came and told you as soon as I knew,” retorted Luke, firmly. “And now I say once more this has been very sudden, but it is irrevocably in obedience to your uncle’s wishes. I shall exact no promises from you, tie you down in no way, but go away in perfect faith that in a few years as the reward of my hard struggle, and when I can go and say to your uncle, ‘See, here, I can command the income you said that I ought to have!’ you will be my little wife.”
“But must you go away, Luke?” she said, with a pitiful look in her eyes.
“Yes, it is absolutely certain. How could I climb up in the world if I stayed here?”
“But I don’t want you to go,” she cried, excitedly.
“And I don’t want to leave you,” he said, fondly.
“I want you to stop and protect me, and take care of me and keep me for yours, Luke.”
“Don’t—don’t talk like that,” he cried, speaking hoarsely, “or you will make me forget my promise to your uncle. Let us be firm and true, and look the matter seriously in the face. It is for our future, and I pray and believe that I am acting wisely here.”
“But you will be away,” she said, with a piteous look in her eyes. “There will be no one to take care of me when you are gone.”
“Nonsense, little one,” he exclaimed. “There is your uncle. What have you to fear? Only be true to me.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” she sobbed; “but you do not know, Luke. I might be tempted, I might be led away from you—I might—”
“Might!” he said, with scorn in his voice. “My little Sage, whom I have known from the day when she gave me first her innocent sisterly love, could not be untrue to the man she has promised to wed. Sage, dear,” he continued, holding her hands in his, and gazing in her agitated, tearful face, “look at me—look me fully in the eyes.”
“Yes, Luke,” she said, hesitatingly; and her pretty, troubled face looked so winning that it was all he could do to keep from clasping her in his arms tightly to his own trusting breast.
“Now,” he said, smiling, “you see me. Can you doubt, dear, that I should ever be untrue to you?”
“No, no! oh, no, Luke,” she cried.
“Neither could I, dearest,” he said, softly. “I am a very plain, unimpulsive man, wanting, perhaps, in the soft speech and ways that are said to please women; but I think my heart is right, and that in spite of my quiet ways I love you very, very dearly.”
“I know, I know you do,” sobbed the girl.
“Yes, and I trust you, my dear,” he said. “I know that you could never give look or word to another that would cause me pain.”
“No, no, dear Luke, I could not,” she sobbed; “but I want you with me. I cannot bear for you to leave me helpless here.”
“Nonsense, my little pet,” he said, tenderly. “The years will soon slip by, and then all will be well. There, we understand each other, do we not?”
“Yes, yes, Luke, I think so,” she sobbed.
“One kiss, then, darling, the last I shall take, perhaps, for years, and then—”
“Oh, no, not now—not now,” she cried, hastily, as he sought to take her in his arms in the sheltered lane. “Uncle is coming with Mr. Cyril Mallow;” and then
