passing over the bridge and up the hill. Suddenly she spied
footprints on the sands of time.

"The river drivers have come again!" she cried, putting her hand
to her side for she had a slight heart trouble like Cora and Mrs.
Peter Meserve, that doesn't kill.

"They HAVE come indeed; ESPECIALLY ONE YOU KNOW," said a voice,
and out from the alder bushes sprung Lancelot Littlefield, for
that was the lover's name and it was none other than he. His hair
was curly and like living gold. His shirt, white of flannel, was
new and dry, and of a handsome color, and as the maiden looked at
him she could think of nought but a fairy prince.

"Forgive," she mermered, stretching out her waisted hands.

"Nay, sweet," he replied. "'Tis I should say that to you," and
bending gracefully on one knee he kissed the hem of her dress. It
was a rich pink gingham check, ellaborately ornamented with white
tape trimming.

Clasping each other to the heart like Cora and the Doctor, they
stood there for a long while, till they heard the rumble of
wheels on the bridge and knew they must disentangle.

The wheels came nearer and verily! it was the maiden's father.

"Can I wed with your fair daughter this very moon," asked
Lancelot, who will not be called his whole name again in this
story.