When evening came, and a few hours before he was to start out upon his mission, he sat down, and, writing a short note, dispatched it to the little white cottage on the hill.
Imogene Lear, on receiving her lover’s note, cast a shawl about her delicate form, and hastened to the place appointed for their meeting. It was in a thick grove of cedars a short distance from the cottage.
Captain Sherwood, dressed in his long military cloak, with his sword girded to his side, was pacing to and fro in a thoughtful mood under the shadow of the stalwart trees.
“Edgar,” whispered Imogene, approaching with noiseless steps behind him, and placing her little white hand upon his shoulder.
“Imogene? It is you!” said he, turning quickly and throwing his arm around her waist. “I was afraid you would be unable to come, my darling.”
“Father was asleep and I stole out unobserved, but I must not remain long away, or he may awake and miss me.”
“Is he as savage against me as ever?” asked Edgar.
“Yes; but, do not let this trouble you, dear Edgar, I am the same—as—ever.”
“I know you are, my darling,” and he imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.
Imogene Lear was eighteen years of age. She was tall in stature, and most exquisitely formed. Her skin was white, even waxen white; and now and then a tinge of the rose visited her cheek; her lips were of that ruby red which goes with perfect health; perfectly arched brows, and long, dark lashes, shading eyes of wonderful brilliancy and depth of expression, made up this face suitable for an angel.