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her that she is grown-up, or to hint that she is a beauty. Although she has reached the 'sweet seventeen' of poetry and romance, she is still dressed as a child. Her short frock barely touches the instep of her pretty foot, and she wears a black apron with a bib. The coral necklace that encircles her white throat is too tight for it, and the tucker beneath it is essentially juvenile.

As she leans her elbow on the table, and looks out upon the mountains, she might be a bright picture set in a pretty frame. Her hair is thrown off her face, and flows down her back in wavy locks of darkest brown; eyes glance from beneath long black lashes, so blue that they are as 'violets dropping dew;' and her complexion is of that startling white that sometimes accompanies those Byronic orbs described as 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.' Two truant dimples play about her mouth, and set mirth a frolic with shyness when she smiles.

What is she thinking of as she gazes on the peak of that distant mountain? She is simply longing to be on the top of it. Her aunt looks at her jealously, and wishes she were not so beautiful. Yet she was a beauty in her youth, and still strives to preserve her looks. She startles her by saying,

'You had better take the dogs out, Evy. You make me quite nervous by staring at nothing, and doing no work.'

Evy jumped up delighted, and overturned the work-table. Mrs. Wynne put her hands to her ears, and said that no one had any compassion for her, and that her niece was even more obstreperous than her husband, if that was possible. Evy righted the table and muttered an apology, then walked to the door on the tips of her toes.

'You needn't mince as if you were walking on eggs,' said her aunt. 'Where do you learn such manners?'

It must be confessed that Evy did bang the door a little, as she jumped into the hall, threw on a hat, and whistled-yes, absolutely whistled

for the dogs. Half a dozen came bounding, jumping, and barking at the call. Mrs. Wynne put her head out of the window, and told her not to let them make such a horrible noise.

'How can I help it? It is their nature,' cried Evy, flourishing a long whip, and apostrophising the dogs.

Gwyngarth was a sort of cottage, low and broad as Evy's forehead. Such creeping plants as would brave the mountain breezes ornamented it in summer, and the glowing red of the virginian creeper kindled it into warmth later in the year. The gravelled drive, on which Evy and her dogs stood, was surrounded by a monster laurel hedge, because Mrs. Wynne found the smooth green of foliage more beneficial to her eyes than the dazzling white of snow. But Evy loved the manyfaced mountains at all times; in the yellowing glory of spring, the shadowy haze of summer, the purpling resplendence of autumn, and the bold barrenness of winter.

She and the dogs were soon amongst them. A sheep walk led them across a thymy heathy flat to the Mynydd Mawr, or big mountain of the district. Here was an old British encampment, their favourite resort; for here Evy could sit and read and gaze on the magnificent prospect of vale and river beneath; and here the dogs could sleep or prowl about at will. Hither also, at rare intervals, came tourists and antiquaries, and Evy liked to watch them from a distance.

She sat down on a large mosscovered stone; Bryn, an old mousecoloured hound, laid his nose on her lap; Max, a retriever, made himself comfortable at her feet; and the other dogs amused themselves by

-snapping gnats, eyeing birds, or starting after rabbits. She took a book from her pocket and began to read. It was Ivanhoe. Scott's romances were her daily food, and she knew them by heart. They were the only amusing books within her reach, for her aunt strictly prohibited the tempting yellow-ticketed volumes that she received monthly from London, and Evy was fearfully as well as conscientiously obedient. But happily there was, in her uncle's private room, a shelf containing the whole series of Sir Walter Scott's enchanting novels, which her aunt had forgotten, and which her uncle ignored. Forgive her if she devoured these in secret, dreading another prohibition. It was well that her food was as pure and invigorating as her mountain breezes.

Just as she was wishing that Ivanhoe could have married both Rebecca and Rowena, she and her guardians were startled by a strange dog, that jumped into the midst of them uninvited, and consequently unwelcomed. It was a Scotch terrier, that stood his ground whilst the natives growled, grinned, and sniffed at him. The terrier's master had been watching our group before his inquisitive dog started to make their acquaintance, and he paused yet a moment, while Evy jumped up to command silence, letting fall her book.

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"You inhospitable curs!' she was exclaiming, as the stranger came forwards, shouting, Rough, be quiet!' and seized his dog by the throat, while hers slunk back at her threatening voice and attitude.

'Inhospitality is not a mountain vice,' said he, looking at her. 'Yes, it is,' retorted she abruptly, returning the glance.

Was this an Ivanhoe, a Waverley, or a Peveril? It was an Ivanhoe; she knew it intuitively: here was her ideal knight at last! Being convinced of this, she did what many

a wiser woman might imitate, fled from her first temptation. She took to her heels and ran down the mountain, shouting 'Bryn, Max, Tudor!' at the top of her voice.

When she paused to take breath, she found that she had lost her book, and returned to look for it. Both her knight and book had disappeared.

'Will he bring it back, Bryn?' she asked, gazing into the thoughtful eyes of the old hound. You think so; then we will come again to-morrow.'

Accordingly they were all at the same spot on the morrow, at about the same hour. She was musing on the handsome face, bright smile, and pleasant voice of her Ivanhoe, when the dauntless Rough appeared, and dashed in amongst her dogs. His master followed.

'Did you find my book?' cried Evy, charging him as boldly as the

terrier.

'Here it is. I would have taken it to your home, but I did not know where you lived.'

'I am thankful you did not,' said Evy, raising her shy eyes, and receiving the book somewhat awkwardly.

'Your dogs are making friends with my Rough,' said he.

"They are not as cross as they seem. Down, Max! Good old Bryn! Down, Tudor! down, sir, I say!'

'They seem very fond of you?'

'Not half as fond as I am of them; are you, old Bryn?' patting the hound's head. 'Is your dog nice?'

'He is very bold and impudent.' 'I like bold impudent dogs. Good Rough! Does he understand you?'

'When I am very decided.'

'Bryn always understands me; don't you, Bryn? Bring back that stone.'

She hurled a small stone to a distant heap, and obedient Bryn brought it back, and watched for

another order. She smiled triumphantly at the stranger, and said naïvely, 'Will your Rough do that?'

'No. See how jealous he looks of your dog's superior talents. Do you live far from this wild spot? I can find no dwelling but peasants' huts.'

'Ought I to tell him, Bryn?' she whispered to her hound, who looked askance at Ivanhoe. "You think I had better not. Come along, then;' and off she started with a sidelong nod, a half-veiled glance, and a dimpled smile, followed by her dogs.

The next day was Sunday, the eventful period of her week, when, weather permitting, she entered into the world. This world was a small church, midway up the mountain. It was surrounded by wild hills, giant pines, rustling trees, murmuring streams, and in winter dashing cataracts. None but peasants and the Gwyngarth family frequented it, for Lord Apavon, the owner of the great house and park, never came to his Welsh property; at least, Evy had never seen him, and she had examined the big pew anxiously most Sundays for several years. No one dared to name a young man in her presence. Evy sat demure, looking alternately at her Bible and the congregation as they trooped in.

The one bell that tinkled such of the hill-side folk to church as did not prefer chapel, ceased suddenly, and the clerk appeared in the aisle before his time. Evy thought he looked unusually important, and no wonder, for he unlocked the great Apavon pew, and held it open. Another moment, and Ivanhoe and another gentleman were seated within it, and both were looking at Evy.

'I knew he was a prince or a lord,' thought Evy, striving to think of her prayers.

She was much embarrassed dur

ing the service by those four eyes. Whenever she glanced up she met them; but meeting also her aunt's languishing hazels, she looked up no more. She was conscious of behaving ill, and blushing crimson beneath her unfashionable hat.

She walked out of church, demure as a puritan, looking neither right nor left.

"That is Lord Apavon,' said Mr. Wynne in her hearing.

He is like his father,' replied Mrs. Wynne.

'He is a paladin, a knight, an Ivanhoe,' thought Evy.

From that time forth Evy was constantly meeting him, sometimes alone, but more frequently with the gentleman who had been at church with him. He always raised his hat, and smiled pleasantly, while his companion greeted her with a full stare from pale-blue expressionless eyes. He could never

have been her ideal knight. He was neither handsome nor, according to her notions, well dressed; and she named him 'Gurth the swineherd.' Sometimes, when she saw them coming, she ran away, followed by her dogs; at others she met them bravely; again, she stood and watched from a distance. Her romance had begun, and she was losing her heart to a pair of deep eyes, a rare smile, a pleasant voice, and some fifty words, treasured and oft-repeated.

One day she encountered Gurth alone. He stood in her path, and looked at her with a half-amused, half-impertinent stare. She was surprised, but not frightened.

Mark him, old Bryn,' she whispered to the hound, always at her heels.

'I have met you alone at last,' he said. May I ask where you live?'

'You may ask, but I need not tell,' said Evy, essaying to pass. 'Stay a moment, for I have wished

to know you ever since I first saw you in church,' he said, detaining her by a grasp of the arm.

Bryn's teeth were in his collar, and Evy was free.

'Well done, old Bryn!' she cried, and ran down the mountain, leaving Gurth to get rid of Bryn with many naughty words.

The following day he waylaid her again. She returned his gaze with a glance half-frightened, half-defiant.

'Your dog nearly throttled me yesterday,' he began.

'That was because you laid hold of me. You had better not do it again, or he will kill you. He is as brave as a lion.'

'And you are as beautiful as Una. Why will you not stay?'

'Because I don't choose. Let me pass, and beware of Bryn: see, he shows his teeth already.'

'What do I care for his teeth when you are here?" said Gurth, detaining her.

'Let me go. You have nothing to do with me, sir. Come, dogs!' cried Evy.

Again she was off like a wild untamed animal, saying,

I knew he was a swineherd, Bryn.'

A moment afterwards, Ivanhoe appeared, and asked if she had seen a gentleman on the mountain.

I saw the man who sits with you in church, but he is not gentle,' replied Evy. He is near the encampment.'

'Not gentle? What did he do?' 'He seized me, and Bryn seized him.'

You are young to wander about so much alone. Are you not afraid?' he said, glancing angrily towards the encampment.

'No, I am never afraid; for the dogs would murder any one who was unkind to me.'

"They would be right. I think I could follow their example,' said

the stranger, hurrying up the mountain.

Evy wandered off to a torrent, sat down by it, and mused of him, losing her wild enthusiastic heart more and more irretrievably.

She tried to understand the change that had come over her. Hitherto her life had been monotonous, and her uncle and aunt indifferent; but she had never been quite miserable. The mountains and the dogs had consoled her for much domestic discomfort, and she had lavished her love on them. The great yearning to love and be loved which she had felt had been unsatisfied, like a gnawing hunger only half satiated; but natural spirits and good health had, in some sort, filled up the void. Now she longed for love with a great desire, and was lonely and unhappy. She knew that if a day passed on which she did not meet Ivanhoe, as she still called the stranger, life seemed a blank; but that when she had only passed him by and been recognised, all the world was gay. She was just conventional enough to know that Lord Apavon would not naturally think of a country girl like her; still she was woman enough to fancy that he sought to meet her. She knew that her aunt was right when she accused her of being longer dressing, longer out of doors, more indolent, and less patient than ever; but she 'lived and loved,' and every thing else seemed indifferent. It was the dawn of her first new day, and her heart beat and her blushes came and went as she sat thinking, thinking, and always of him to whom she had scarcely spoken a hundred words. 'What did he mean when he said, "I think I could follow their example?" she asked old Bryn, and he wagged his tail, and gave an unsatisfactory glance up the mountain. Then he growled. Her heart sank. If Bryn misdoubted him, he could not care for her. But Bryn was growling because he saw Gurth ap

proaching with his gun over his shoulder, and his dogs at his heels. The growl attracted his attention, and he saw Evy. He was at her side in a moment. She told him brusquely that his friend was looking for him, and he laughed and said that he might look on. Bryn's eyes and mind were attracted by the strange dogs, so Gurth had the field to himself for a few minutes. He stood looking at the beautiful girl before him, who had risen hastily, and was about to pass him by. He told her politely that he would not hurt her, but that if she persisted in running away, he would set his bloodhounds upon her dogs, and make such a hullaballoo as would waken up all the echoes of the mountains.

'You are not a gentleman, like Lord Apavon,' said Evy, facing him.

He smiled, and said that was possible, but whether gentle or simple, he wanted to make her acquaintance, and did not care whether she were a lady or a servant. Evy's pride was roused, and she assured him in voluble English that she was a lady, and knew a knight from a swineherd.

'Whatever you are, your are piquante and beautiful; and I think this an awfully jolly place to make love in,' was his rejoinder.

Evy knew nothing of the men of the period or their slang, so she stared at him, and her eyes lost their shyness. His met them boldly, and she was frightened at their expression. 'Seize him, Bryn,' she cried, and Bryn seized, not him, but one of the bloodhounds whose acquaintance he was making. The hullaballoo threatened by the stranger succeeded, and a battle would have ensued had not he in voice of thunder stayed his hound, holding back Evy forcibly, who was about to attempt to separate the dogs. In bounded Rough, followed by his master, exclaiming,

'I have found you at last!

The new-comer took in the scene in part, and with unhesitating impetuosity cried,

'Let her go, or I'll knock you down!'

'Such strong measures are unnecessary. I am only restraining her from running into the lion's jaws,' said Gurth, releasing Evy, who ran to her Ivanhoe for protection.

The young men looked as unpleasantly at each other as did the dogs, and poor Evy lost courage. She was, in truth, very much frightened at her novel position. She could no longer run away, for she was in a ravine; so she whispered to her protector to keep back that horrible man while she climbed its sides.

'The horrible man' said, 'Three's no company,' and glanced haughtily at them; but Ivanhoe was not daunted. He said decidedly, 'It is getting dusk. I will see you home,' and prepared to help Evy up the pass. But Evy grew more and more terrified, as a vision of her uncle and aunt presented itself. She put her hand a moment into his, then said hastily, 'I must not, they will be angry,' and sprang up the ravine alone, calling her dogs. She heard hot angry words as she disappeared, and hastened towards a mountain sheep-path.

The heavy mists of the autumn twilight were beginning to fall, and she ran till she was out of breath. Pausing to recover it, she glanced round, and saw two figures in the distance like spectres, apparently pursuing her and one another. She was sure that Gurth was foremost by his big dogs, so she ran off again for very life. It was nearly dark when she reached home, and she was severely lectured by her aunt. All that night she lay awake, fancying that these strangers might have quarrelled and murdered one an

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