Matters went on happily thus for many days—it seemed that the course of true love was to run very smooth—when one evening a little incident occurred that startled all.
The little party of four were dining together, as they generally did.
Mr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine, wine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he bade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it brimming to his lips, pledged "His sacred Majesty, good King George."
With a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the table, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery.
The parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek.
Mistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in consternation.
The colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. "Was this then the mystery?"
The absent king held all her sympathies.
Mr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat unsteadily:
"Good sir, I am a man of peace. I love order and a strong government. Can I hazard my daughter by—"