"Nay, then," he said, "an thou mock me with uncouth phrases, Mary, I'd best be going."
"Perhaps you'd better, Guy."
With a reproachful glance, but holding his head proudly, the young man mounted his horse.
"He hath a noble air on horseback," Phœbe said to herself, and she smiled.
The young man saw the smile and took courage.
He urged his horse forward to her side.
"Mary!" he exclaimed, tenderly.
"Fare thee well!" she replied, coolly, and turned her back.
He bit his lip, clinched his hand, and without another word, struck fiercely with his spurs. With a snort of pain, the horse bounded forward, and Phœbe found herself alone in the grove.
She gazed wistfully after the horseman and clasped her hands in silence for a few moments. Then, at thought of the letter she knew he was soon to write—the letter she had often seen in the carved box—she smiled again and, patting her skirts, stepped forth merrily from the edge of the grove.