But the real Hynde Horn in the dear old ballad had a truelove who was not captious and capricious and cold like Francesca. His love gave him a gay gold ring--`Of virtue and value above all thing.'
Yet stay: behind the ballad book flung heedlessly on my desk was--what should it be but the little morocco case, empty now, in which our Francesca keeps her dead mother's engagement ring--the mother who died when she was a wee child. Truly a very pretty modern ballad to be sung in these unromantic, degenerate days!
Francesca came in at the door behind me, saw her secret reflected in my tell-tale face, saw the sympathetic moisture in my eyes, and, flinging herself into my willing arms, burst into tears.
"O Pen, dear, dear Pen, I am so miserable and so happy; so afraid that he won't come back, so frightened for fear that he will! I sent him away because there were so many lions in the path, and I didn't know how to slay them. I thought of my f-father; I thought of my c-c-country. I didn't want to live with him in Scotland, I knew that I couldn't live without him in America, and there I was!
I didn't think I was s-suited to a minister, and I am not; but oh! this p-particular minister is so s-suited to me!" and she threw herself on the sofa and buried her head in the cushions.
She was so absurd even in her grief that I had hard work to keep from smiling.
"Let us talk about the lions," I said soothingly. "But when did the trouble begin? When did he speak to you?"
"After the tableau last night; but of course there had been other--other--times--and things."
"Of course. Well?"
"He had told me a week before that he should go away for a while, that it made him too wretched to stay here just now; and I suppose that was when he got the silver wand ready for me. It was meant for the Jean of the poem, you know. Of course he would not put my own name on a gift like that."
"You don't think he had it made for Jean Dalziel in the first place?"--I asked this, thinking she needed some sort of tonic in her relaxed condition.
"You know him better than that, Penelope! I am ashamed of you! We had read Hynde Horn together ages before Jean Dalziel came; but I imagine, when we came to acting the lines, he thought it would be better to have some other king's daughter; that is, that it would be less personal. And I never, never would have been in the tableau, if I had dared refuse Lady Ardmore, or could have explained; but I had no time to think. And then, naturally, he thought by me being there as the king's daughter that--that--the lions were slain, you know; instead of which they were roaring so that I could hardly hear the orchestra."
"Francesca, look me in the eye! Do--you--love him?"
"Love him? I adore him!" she exclaimed in good clear decisive English, as she rose impetuously and paced up and down in front of the sofa. "But in the first place there is the difference in nationality."
"I have no patience with you. One would think he was a Turk, an Esquimau, or a cannibal. He is white, he speaks English, and he believes in the Christian religion. The idea of calling such a man a foreigner!"
"Oh, it didn't prevent me from loving him," she confessed, "but I thought at first it would be unpatriotic to marry him."
"Did you think Columbia could not spare you even as a rare specimen to be used for exhibition purposes?" I asked wickedly.
