means, and I dispose of them my own way. Have I not a right to?'

'Yes, sir,' she said meekly.

He gave the fire a stir, and lace and ribbons, and the twelve
flounces, and the embroidery, and all the rest crackled and
disappeared. He then put in her hands the butter basket she had
brought to take on to her grandmother's, and accompanied her to the
edge of the wood, where it merged in the undulating open country in
which her granddame dwelt.

'Now, Margery,' he said, 'here we part. I have performed my
contract--at some awkwardness, if I was recognized. But never mind
that. How do you feel--sleepy?'

'Not at all, sir,' she said.

'That long nap refreshed you, eh? Now you must make me a promise.
That if I require your presence at any time, you will come to me . .
. I am a man of more than one mood,' he went on with sudden
solemnity; 'and I may have desperate need of you again, to deliver me
from that darkness as of Death which sometimes encompasses me.
Promise it, Margery--promise it; that, no matter what stands in the
way, you will come to me if I require you.'

'I would have if you had not burnt my pretty clothes!' she pouted.

'Ah--ungrateful!'

'Indeed, then, I will promise, sir,' she said from her heart.