OUR FIRST FAMILIES.

CHAPTER IV. - Fate Interposes.

"Under the Greenwood Tree."

WHEN the departure of the philosopher left him time to think, Yung pondered over the two great events of the last hour; Loe's confession, and Mnag's proposal. The former filled him with a thrilling joy which almost drove the latter from his mind. How could he think of the philosopher's proposition, when his brain kept singing, "She is mine! mine!"

He was too excited to stay under roof; he took his way to the forest. His busy brain was engaged with castles in the air. He framed declarations of passion, and committed them to memory; "For," thought he, "I am so bashful that I could not find a word to say in her presence, unless I had thought it out beforehand." As he came into a little open space, he saw a maid before him; she turned with a cry, and fled. He followed her, and soon caught her, only to see her fall fainting. He knelt by her side; it was Tue. Thus they met.

Yung was at his wits' end. He had never before seen any one in a faint, and he had a very dim idea of what it was necessary to do. He thought, however, that he ought to sprinkle the girl's face with water. He looked around him to find a stream.

He was in a little valley, carpeted with green turf, and almost bare of trees. At the bottom of the vale, a chattering brook ripple over smooth stones, and hurried on to join the sea. Just above him the course of the brook turned from east to south-east; and where the valley curved, on the north bank, a pretty moss-covered grotto opened toward the sun. Behind this a cliff suddenly rose a score of feet; while before it a large flat stone formed a convenient floor, reaching from the cave quite to the edge of the brook.

Yung decided to take the girl to this place; he accordingly bent down and carefully raised her in his arms. The unaccustomed burden made the youth's heart flutter. He gazed down on her face, relaxed as in sleep; at the sight of its innocent beauty, his heart thrilled.

He had never seen a girl's face so closely before. Even Loe's beauty was known to him more by imagination than by experience. Every one called her the belle of the country; and the fanciful Yung had fixed to her his ideal of female loveliness. Here was that ideal realized in another woman, and that woman in his arms!

Before Yung reached the cave, his passion for Loe was almost quite transferred to the stranger; and when, after a vigorous sprinkling with cold water from the brook, she opened her eyes, his enthralment was complete.

"Where am I?" the girl said feebly; then recollecting, "Oh!" and she covered her face with her hands.

Why is it that women, like snakes, fancy themselves hidden from pursuit if their eyes are covered? Is the snake the origin of the female, - and the owl of the male? What we see of the intellects of the two sexes might give some foundation for such an opinion.

Stealing a glance through her fingers, Tue found that the youth before her was not whom she had thought. "Why," she cried, "you are not Ching."

"No," answered Yung, with a sigh; for the question had called up torturing thoughts in his mind.

"You - you will not harm me ?" she begged. "No," answered Yung again, this time decidedly.

The girl closed her eyes, and lay a few moments quiet. When she opened them again, the youth was gone.

Tue was alarmed to find herself so suddenly left alone, and she cried out. Yung was at her side almost immediately.

She wondered at the glad feeling in her heart when she saw him. "I thought you had gone," she explained.

"And left you? Never!" he cried fervently. She shut her eyes again, in lazy content. "Where were you?" she asked.

"I was just aside there, gathering brushwood."

"Why?"

"I am going to make a fire."

"Do you live here?"

"Oh, no, indeed; I come from the village."

"Then won't you please take me home before you make your fire? For my father might feel anxious."

"I am very sorry," said Yung, hesitating, "but, really, it is so dark that it would be useless to try to reach the village to-night."

"But I must go home," cried Tue, springing up; "I will not stay here all night! How dare you propose it? I will never do it, never!"

"We should certainly be lost in the forest," said Yung; "look up and see."

It was even as Yung had said. While these events had been taking place, evening's mantle had shadowed the earth; and even now the blackness of midnight was under the shade of the trees, though it was yet dusk in the open glen. Tue saw the truth of Yung's words; but in her case (as in that of many, I fear) the discovery of truth did not bring with it an exquisite joy. She sank upon the ground and wept.

Soon, however, her woman's wit thought of an expedient. "We might follow along the shore," she said.

"And fall into the sea in the darkness? No, we must stay here till morning."

By this time Yung had kindled a fire; and the ruddy glare lit up the valley, and sparkled far off on the sea. "We must keep up a beacon-light," said Yung gayly. "Now let us make arrangements for the night."

He brought in fresh branches, and made a bed on the floor of the cave. With two broad leafy boughs, he made, as it were, curtains for the door, which should screen Tue from the fire, but not cut her off from its heat. Tue watched him, as he made all these arrangements for her comfort, with a feeling in which alarm was tempered by a strange complacency.

"Now you shall have the cave," said Yung, when all was done, "and I will watch below there. Or stay," he added, "I will go home by the coast - I can find my way alone - and bring help in the morning. Unless you would be afraid?"

Tue made no answer. After a little, "Shall I go?" Yung asked.

"No," whispered the girl.

"You would be frightened?"

"Yes," she admitted; and immediately disappeared behind her rustic curtains.

Yung replenished the fire, and then took his post at some distance down the valley. There, leaning against a tree, he tried to think over the strange events of the day. Tue, inside the cave, could not sleep. She thought of Yung, watching out in the cold night; and her thoughts were more and more kind toward him. After a restless hour, she got up and peeped through the door. Yung was outside, tending the fire. He looked up, and saw her face through the leaves.

"I could not sleep," apologized Tue, as if she felt herself accountable to her companion.

"Nor could I," said Yung; and they both laughed, as if it were a joke.

"I was afraid you might be cold," said Tue, with bashful concern.

"Oh, no," answered Yung.

"Or frightened? Are there no wild beasts or anything dangerous about us?" and she shuddered at the thought.

"Oh, no," again; "we are perfectly safe."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, indeed," said Yung.

"Then - will you please not stay awake to watch? You have been so kind to me; I would not put you to unnecessary inconvenience. I cannot sleep unless you promise."

"Very well," said Yung, "I promise."

Satisfied on this point, Tue went into the cave again, and was soon fast asleep.

When she next opened her eyes it was broad day. The fire was out, and looking through the branches that formed her door, she could see the brook, rippling silver-bright in the morning sun. She remembered her situation with a smile and a blush; and went out to find her protector.

There he was, ready for her appearance; with a fair lunch of fruit and fish such as only he himself could have procured under the circumstances. His smile, on seeing Tue, was singularly winning.

"See," he said, "you shall not be the guest of an empty-handed host. We must not faint with hunger before we reach home."

After an abundant breakfast, they set out for home; but each turned back for a minute in an affectionate farewell to the camp. The first mile of the road was finished with quiet conversation, at an ordinary pace; but as they neared the village Yung's steps grew gradually slower; nor did Tue insist upon haste. They were silent for five minutes, then Yung said suddenly, "I wish this might go on forever!"

Tue looked a little frightened, but still she did not remonstrate.

"Am I never to see you again?" said Yung.

"I hope so; why not?" Not much in themselves, these words; but the tone was so low, so pleading, so hopeful, and withal so sweet, that the answer meant much.

"How?" inquired Yung.

"It is not my place to tell you," she answered.

"I shall die if I do not see you again soon."

Tue looked gratified, but shocked. "You must n't say that."

"But I mean it; I want you to be my wife."

"You could not get my father's consent," said she faintly.

"I can try. Tell me, if he consents, will you?"

"Yes," whispered Tue passionately, and fled. Her brain was in a tumult. Joy, passion, hope, foreboding, were mingled in a chaotic mass of thought. But as she approached her father's hut she could think more clearly. What had she done? She had expressed her preference for a mere stranger; one of whose very name she was ignorant. In vain she assured herself that his conduct at the glen proved him good and noble. "A single act is no basis for determining character," her judgment replied; "it may be quite in keeping with the actor's character; it may be merely a whim." She had been very rash, she knew; and she was growing more and more repentant every moment as she lifted the latch of her father's door.

(To be concluded.)