The farmer rose, and so did Arkdale.

The farmer waited. Arkdale picked up his stick, and walked to the middle of the room.

Then he paused. On one side of him was the ladder— on the other was the door, showing a fair night and a Which should he choose?

harvest moon.

He advanced to the ladder.

"Mistress Merryweather, I wish you good-night,"

said he, and said it rather coolly, for he had not yet forgotten the "roving jackanapes."

Joan nodded stiffly.

Arkdale would now have mounted the ladder, but Farmer Bristow stood at the foot of it, barring his way, and staring at him with a peculiar look in his small round eyes.

Arkdale returned his look inquiringly.

"Woll?" said the farmer menacingly.

"Sir?" said Arkdale.

"I don't understand thy new-fangled courtin'," observed Bristow, in a low voice; "but I toll 'ee this moch, young mon-I'll have no donderin' wi' Joan, no dormed willin

and wontin'. If she's thy sweetheart, as thee says she is, whoy don't 'ee go and give her a kiss ? "

Arkdale paused a minute, then went over to Joan's cor

ner.

He laid one hand on her wheel, and the other on the back of her chair.

Joan looked up, and she saw he no more intended to give her a kiss than she intended to receive one.

"Mistress Merryweather," said he, in a voice too low for the farmer to hear, "I am going back to the fair betimes in the morning. If I am up before the others, will you speak with me?"

Joan bowed her head gravely.

Arkdale would then have left her, but that he knew Farmer Bristow was watching him, and had seen he had not yet obeyed his instructions.

It was an awkward

position for him, and Joan knew it was.

She glanced up

at him a little maliciously, and then, as their eyes met, they both smiled, and Joan shook her head in a charming

manner, that said plainly, "Nay, my friend, not till we know each other better."

"Good night, then, Joan; God bless thee," said Joan's

sweetheart of half a day; and to satisfy the farmer, he stooped down, and gave the little hand on the wheel a sounding kiss.

"Woll, that's dormed honest courtship, and thee's welcome to stay as long as thee loikes," said Bristow shaking Arkdale's hand at the foot of the ladder.

The farmer not only saw his guest up the ladder, but took the ladder away as soon as Arkdale reached the loft. Then, bidding Joan "mind and not set the place a-fire," he went upstairs.

Arkdale was a sound sleeper, accustomed to snatch his rest when and where he could; but that night a very trivial and monotonous noise kept him awake. It was

the sound of Joan's wheel.

When he first perceived it he smiled, and thought it pleasant company in that strange place. He should but sleep the sweeter for hearing it. It was not long, however, before he began to put his fingers in his ears, and mutter, with a wry face

"By the mass, Joan, 'tis no lullaby! I'd as lief thy task was done."

But there was no escaping the steady, humdrum sound, or, if he did escape it for a minute by half smothering himself in the hay, he could not resist lifting up his head to listen again-to exclaim to himself each time, "At it still, by the mass!"

The old church he had seen as they came by the ferry struck the night hours-nine, ten, eleven-and still Joan's wheel droned on, and still Joan's wooer listened, and was restless.

"Good Lord," thought he, at the last striking of the clock, "how many hours of thy life dosta spin away like this, my poor Joan, and all for that paltry little wage of thine!"

He drew himself to the edge of the loft, and from its darkness looked across to the pale light of Joan's rush candle.

She sat there spinning as for dear life. The faint light touched her hair and white neckerchief. Her thin and deft hands moved swiftly.

Great moths came and dashed themselves against her hair, as if taking that for the centre of the untimely light.

Great shadows crept to her feet, or leaned to her from

walls, and made her cower in her chair, and gaze at them vague alarm.

with her blue eyes full of

If a bit of rotten wood were knocked down by the rats, or a breeze knocked the boughs of ripe apples against the window, her lips parted and her eyes stared widely with fright, but her hands toiled on.

It was evident to Arkdale she was too well used to the night hours, and the terrors they presented to her ignorant and superstitious mind, to stop her labour on account of them. Her very heart might stand still for fright sooner than her wheel.

While watching her, Arkdale fell asleep, and dreamt he was defending her against ghosts, collegians, and Merry Andrews, till one of the youths, his sleeping companions, dealt him a smart blow in the back, and growled—

"Dorm thee, Luke! keep thy fists to theeself, woll 'ee?"

When Arkdale woke in the morning it was broad daylight. The ladder was back in its old place, and the young men were gone.