"Serve her right!" she said to herself, setting her thin lips spitefully together—"Serve her right!"

There are a great many eminently respectable ladies of Miss Tabitha's temperament who always say 'Serve her right,' when a pretty and charming woman, superior to themselves, meets with some misfortune. They regard it as a just dispensation of Providence.

John Walden meanwhile had braced himself to face the worst that could happen. Or rather, as he chose to put it, strength, not his own, had been given him to stand up, albeit feebly, under the shock of unexpected disaster. Pale, composed, punctilious in the performance of all his duties, and patiently attentive to the needs of his parishioners, he went about among them as usual in his own quiet, sympathetic way just as if his heart were not crying out in fierce rebellion against inexorable destiny,—and as if he were not wildly clamouring to be near her whom, now that she was being taken from him, he knew that he loved with an ardour far deeper and stronger than with the same passion common to men in the first flush of their early manhood. And though he sent Bainton every day up to the Manor to make enquiries about her, he never went near the place himself. He could not. Brave as he tried to be, he could not meet Cicely Bourne. He knew that one look into the little singer's piteous dark eyes would have broken him down completely.

Every night Dr. 'Jimmy' Forsyth came to the rectory with the latest details respecting Maryllia's condition,—though for weeks there was no change to report. She was suffering from violent concussion of the brain, and was otherwise seriously injured, but Forsyth would not as yet state how serious the injuries were. For he guessed Walden's secret, and was deeply touched by the quiet patience and restrained sorrow of the apparently calm, self-contained man who, notwithstanding his own inward acute agony, never forgot a single detail having to do with the poor or sick of the parish,—who soothed little Ipsie Frost's bewildered grief concerning her 'poor bootiful white lady-love,'—and who sat with old Josey Letherbarrow by his cottage fire, trying as best he could to explain, ay, even to excuse the mysterious ways of divine Providence as apparently shown in the visitation of cruel affliction on the head of a sweet and innocent woman. Josey was a little dazed about it all and could not be brought to realise that 'th' owld Squire's gel' might never rise from her bed again.

"G'arn with ye!" he said, indignantly, to the melancholy village gossips who came in to see him and shake their heads generally over life and its brief vanities—"Th' Almighty Lord ain't a pulin', spiteful, hoppitty kicketty devil wot ain't sure of 'is own mind! He don't make a pretty thing just to break it agin all for nowt! Didn't ye all come clickettin' to me about the Five Sister beeches, an' ain't they still stannin'? An' Miss Maryllia 'ull stan' too just as fast an' firm as the trees,—you take my wurrd for't! She ain't goin' to die! Why look at me—just on ninety, an' I ain't dead yet!"

But a qualm of fear and foreboding came over him whenever 'Passon' visited him. John's sad face told him more than words could express.

"Ain't she no better, Passon?" he would ask, timidly and tremblingly.

And John, laying his own hand on the old brown wrinkled one, would reply gently,

"No better, Josey! But we must hope,—we must hope always, and believe that God will be merciful."

"An' if He ain't merciful, what'll we do?" persisted Josey once, with tears in his poor dim eyes.

"We must submit!" answered John, almost sternly—"We must believe that He knows what is wise and good for her—and for us all! And we must live out our lives patiently without her, Josey!—patiently, till the blessed end—till that peace cometh which passeth all understanding!"

And Josey, looking at him, was awed by the pale spiritual serenity of his features and the tragic human grief of his eyes.

One person in the neighbourhood proved himself a mainstay of help and consolation during this time of general anxiety and suspense, and this was Julian Adderley. He was always at hand and willing to be of service. He threw his 'dreams' of poesy to the winds and became poet in earnest,—poet in sympathy with others,—poet in kindly thought,—poet in constant delicate ways of solace to the man he had learned to respect above all others, and whose unspoken love and despair he recognised with more passionate appreciation than any grandly written tragedy. He had gone at once to the Manor on Cicely's arrival there, and had laid himself, metaphorically so to speak, at her feet. When she had first seen him, all oppressed by the weight of her sorrow as she was, she had burst out crying, whereat he had, without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment, taken her in his arms and kissed her. Neither he nor she seemed the least surprised at the spontaneity of their mutual caress,—it came quite naturally. "It was so new—so fresh!" said Julian afterwards. And from that eventful moment, he had installed himself more or less at the Manor, under Cicely's orders. He wrote letters for her, answered telegrams, drew up a formal list of 'Callers' and 'Enquiries,' kept accounts, went errands for the two trained nurses who were in day and night attendance on the unconscious invalid upstairs, and made himself generally useful and reliable. But his 'fantastic' notions were the same as ever. He would not, as he put it, 'partake of food' at the Manor while its mistress was lying ill,—nor would he allow any servant in the household to wait upon him. He merely came and went, quietly to and fro, giving his best services to all, and never failing to visit Walden every day, and tell him all the latest news. He even managed to make friends with the great dog Plato, who, ever since Maryllia's accident, had taken up regular hours of vigil outside her bedroom door, regardless of doctor and nurses, though he would move his leonine body gently aside whenever they passed in or out, showing a perfectly intelligent comprehension of their business. Plato every now and again would indulge in a walk abroad with Julian, accompanying him as far as the rectory, where he would enter, laying his broad head on Walden's knee with a world of sympathy in his loving brown eyes, while Nebbie, half-jealous, half-gratified, squatted humbly in the shadow of his feathery tail. And John found a certain melancholy pleasure in caressing the very dog Maryllia loved, and would sit, thoughtfully stroking the animal's thick coat, while Adderley and Dr. Forsyth, both of whom were now accustomed to meet in his little study every evening, discussed the pros and cons of what was likely to happen when Maryllia woke from her long trance of insensibility. Would her awakening be to life or death? John listened to their talk, himself saying nothing, all unaware that they talked merely to cheer him and to try and put the best light they could on the face of affairs in order to give him the utmost hope.

The weary days rolled on in rain and gloom,—Christmas came and went with a weight and dullness never before known in St. Rest. Every Sunday since the accident, Walden had earnestly requested the prayers of his congregation for Miss Vancourt, 'who was seriously ill'—and on Christmas Day, he gave out the same request, with a pathetic alteration in the wording, which as he uttered it, caused many people to sob as they listened.

"The prayers of this congregation," he said—"are desired for Maryllia Vancourt, who has been much beloved among you, and whose life is now in imminent peril!"

A chill seemed to strike through the church,—an icy blast far colder than the wintry wind,—the alabaster sarcophagus in front of the altar seemed all at once invested with a terrible significance,- -death, and death only was the sovereign ruler of the world! And when the children's choir rose to give the 'Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the new-born King'—their voices were unsteady and fell out of tune into tears.

Maryllia was indeed in 'imminent peril.' She had become suddenly restless, and her suffering had proportionately increased. At the earliest symptom of returning consciousness, the attention of the watchers at her bedside became redoubled;—should she speak, they were anxious to hear the first word that escaped her lips. For as yet, no one knew how she had come by her accident. None of the hunters had seen her fall, and Bennett the groom, stoutly refused to believe that the mare had either missed her jump, or thrown her mistress.

"She couldn't have done it,"—he declared—"And if she could, she wouldn't! She's too sensible, and Miss Vancourt's too sure a rider. Something's at the bottom of it all, and I'd give a good deal to find out what it is, and WHO it is!"

Thus said Bennett, with many dark nods of meaning, and gradually the idea that Maryllia had been the victim of foul play, took root in the minds of all the villagers who heard him. Everyone in the place was on the watch for a clue,—a whisper,—a stray suggestion as to the possible cause of the mischief. But so far nothing had been discovered.

On the night before the last of the year, Maryllia, who had been tossing uneasily all the afternoon, and moaning piteously, suddenly opened her eyes and looked about her with a frightened air of recognition. Cicely, always at hand with the nurse in attendance, went quickly to the bedside in a tremour of hope and fear.

"Maryllia! Dearest, do you know me?"

She stared vaguely, and a faint smile hovered about her lips. Then her brows suddenly knitted into a perplexed, pained frown, and she said quite clearly—

"It was Oliver Leach!"

Cicely gave a little cry. The nurse warned her into silence by a gesture. There was a pause. Maryllia looked from one to the other wistfully.

"It was not Cleo's fault," she went on, speaking slowly, but distinctly—"Cleo never missed. Oliver Leach took the hedge just behind us. It was wrong! He meant to kill me. I saw it in his face!" She shuddered violently, and her eyelids closed. "He was cruel— cruel!" she murmured feebly—"But I was too happy!"

She drifted again into a stupor,—and Cicely, her whole soul awakened by these broken words into a white heat of wrath and desire for vengeance, left the room with sufficient information to set the whole village in an uproar. Oliver Leach! In less than four-and- twenty hours, the news was all over the place. The spreading wave of indignation soon rose to an overwhelming high tide, and had Leach shown himself anywhere in or near the village he would have stood an uncommonly good chance of being first horsewhipped, and then 'ducked' in the river by an excited crowd. Oliver Leach! The hated, petty upstart who had ground down the Abbot's Manor tenantry to the very last penny that could be wrested from them!—who had destroyed old cherished land-marks, and made ugly havoc in many once fair woodland places in order to put money in his own pocket,—even he, so long an object of aversion among them, was the would-be murderer of the last descendant of the Vancourts! The villagers talked of nothing else,—quiet and God-fearing rustics as they were, they had no patience with treachery, meanness and cowardice, and were the last kind of people in the world to hold their peace on a matter of wickedness or injustice, merely because Leach was in the employ of several neighbouring land-owners, including Sir Morton Pippitt. Murmurs and threats ran from mouth to mouth, and Walden when he heard of it, said nothing for, or against, their clamour for revenge. The rage and sorrow of his own soul were greater than the wrath of combined hundreds,—and his feeling was all the more deep and terrible because it found no expression in words. The knowledge that such a low and vile creature as Oliver Leach had been the cause, and possibly the intentional cause of Maryllia's grievous suffering and injury, moved him to realise for the first time in his life what it was to be conscious of a criminal impulse. He himself longed to kill the wretch who had brought such destruction on a woman's beauty and happiness!—and it was with a curious sort of satisfaction that he found himself called upon in the ordinary course of things to read at evening service during the first week in January, the Twenty-eighth Psalm, wherein David beseeches God to punish the ungodly.

"Reward them according to their deeds, and according to the wickedness of their own inventions!

"Recompense them after the work of their hands: pay them that they have deserved!"

Such demands for the punishment of one's enemies may not be 'Christian,' but they are Scriptural, and as such, John felt himself justified in pronouncing them with peculiar emphasis and fervour.

Meanwhile, by slow degrees, the 'imminent peril' passed, and Maryllia came back to her conscious self,—a self that was tortured in every nerve by pain,—but, with the return of her senses came also her natural sweetness and gentleness, which now took the form of a touching patience, very sad, yet very beautiful to see. The first little gleam of gladness in her eyea awoke for Cicely,—to whom, as soon as she recognised her, she put up her lips to be kissed. Her accident had not disfigured her,—the fair face had been spared, though it was white and drawn with anguish. But she could not move her limbs,—and when she had proved this for herself, she lay very still, thinking quietly, with a dream-like wonder and sorrow in her blue eyes, like the wistfulness in the eyes of a wounded animal that knows not why it should be made to suffer. Docile to her nurses, and grateful for every little service, she remained for some days in a sort of waking reverie, holding Cicely's hand often, and asking her an occasional question about the house, the gardens and the village. And January was nearly at an end, when she began at last to talk connectedly and to enquire closely as to her own actual condition.

"Am I going to die, Cicely?" she asked one morning—"You will tell me the truth, dear, won't you? I would rather know."

Cicely choked back her tears, and smiled bravely.

"No, darling, no! You are better,—but—but you will be a long time ill!"

Maryllia looked at her searchingly, and sighed a little.

"What have they done with Cleo?" she murmured.

"Cleo is all right,"—said Cicely—"She was badly hurt, but Bennett knows how you love her, and he is doing all he can for her. She will never hunt again, I'm afraid!"

"Nor shall I!" and Maryllia sighed again, and closed her eyes to hide the tears that welled up in them.

There was a dark presentiment in her mind,—a heavy foreboding to which she would not give utterance before Cicely, lest it should grieve her. But the next day, when Dr. Forsyth paid her his usual visit, and said in his usual cheery way that all was 'going on well'—she startled him by requesting to speak to him alone, without anyone else in the room, not even the attendant nurse.

"It is only a little question I want to ask!" she said with the faint reflex of her old bright smile on her face—"And I'm sure you'll answer it!"

'Jimmy' Forsyth hesitated. He felt desperately uncomfortable. He instinctively knew what her question would be,—a question to which there was only one miserable answer. But her grave pleading glance was not to be resisted,—so, making the best of a bad business, he cleared the room, shut the door, and remained in earnest conversation with his patient for half-an-hour. And at the end of that time, he went out, with tears in his keen eyes, and a suspicious cough catching his throat, as he strode away from the Manor through the leafless avenues, and heard the branches of the trees rattling like prison chains in an angry winter's wind.

The worst was said,—and when it was once said, it was soon known. Maryllia was not to die—not yet. Fate had willed it otherwise. But she was to be a cripple for life. That was her doom. Never again would her little feet go tripping through the rose gardens and walks of her beloved home,—never would her dainty form be borne, a weightless burden, by 'Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt' through the flowering woods of spring,—from henceforth she would have to be carried by others up and down, to and fro, a maimed and helpless creature, with all the physical and healthful joys of living cut away from her at one cruel blow! And yet—it was very strange!—she herself was not stricken with any particular horror or despair at her destiny. When, after the doctor had left, Cicely came in, trembling and afraid,—Maryllia smiled at her with quite a sweet placidity.

"I know all about myself now,"—she said, quietly—"I'm sorry in a way,—because I shall be so useless. But—I have escaped Roxmouth for good this time!"

"Oh my darling!" wept Cicely—"Oh my dear, beautiful Maryllia! If it were only me instead of you!"

Maryllia drew the dark head down on the pillow beside her.

"Nonsense! Why should it have been you!" she said, cheerfully—"You will be a delight to the world with your voice, Cicely,—whereas I am nothing, and never have been anything. I shall not be missed—-"

Her voice faltered a moment, as the thought of John Walden suddenly crossed her mind. He would perhaps—only perhaps—miss her! Anon, a braver and purely unselfish emotion moved her soul, and she began to be almost glad that she was, as she said to herself, 'laid aside.'

"For now,"—she mused—"they can say nothing at all about him at MY expense. Even Roxmouth's tongue must stop calumniating me,—for though many people are very heartless, they do draw the line at slandering a crippled woman! It's all for the best,—I'm sure it's all for the best!"

And a serene contentment took possession of her,—a marvellous peace that brought healing in its train, for with the earliest days of February, when the first snowdrops were beginning to make their white way through the dark earth, she was able to be moved from her bed, and carried down to the morning room, where, lying on her couch, near a sparkling fire, with a bunch of early flowering aconites opening their golden eyes in a vase beside her, she looked almost as if she were getting well enough soon to rise and walk again. She was bright and calm, and quickly managed to impart her own brightness and calmness to others. She summoned all the servants of the household to her in turn, and spoke to them so kindly, and thanked them so sweetly for the trouble and care they had taken and were taking on her behalf that they could scarcely hide their tears. As for poor Mrs. Spruce, who had nervously hesitated to approach her for fear of breaking down in her presence, she no sooner made her appearance than Maryllia stretched out her arms like a child, with a smile on her face.

"Come and kiss me, Spruce!" she said, almost playfully—"and don't cry! I'm not crying for myself, you see, and I don't want anyone else to cry for me. You'll help to make the cripple-time pleasant, won't you?—yes, of course you will!—and I can do the housekeeping just the same as ever—nothing need alter that. Only instead of running about all over the place, and getting in the way, I shall have to keep still,—and you will always know where to find me. That's something of an advantage, Spruce! And you'll talk to me!—oh yes!—trust you for talking, you dear thing!—and I shall know just as much about everybody as I want to,—there Spruce!—you WILL cry!- -so run away just now, and come back presently when you feel better- -and braver!" Whereat Mrs. Spruce had kissed her on the cheek at her own request, and had caught her little hand and kissed that, and had then hurried out of the room before her rising sobs could break out, as they did, into rebellious blubbering.

"Which the Lord Almighty's ways are 'ard to bear!" she wailed. "An' that they're past findin' out, no sensible person will contradict, for why Miss Maryllia should be laid on 'er back an' me left to stan' upright is a mystery Gospel itself can't clear! An' if I could onny see Passon Walden, I'd ask 'im what it all means, for if anybody knows it he will,—but he won't see no one, an' Dr. Forsyth says best not trouble 'im, so there I am all at sea without a life- belt, which Spruce bein' 'arder of 'earin' than ever, don't understand nohow nor never will. But if there's no way out of all this trouble, the Lord Himself ain't as wise as I took 'im for, for didn't He say to a man what 'ad crutches in the Testymen 'Arise an' walk'?—an' why shouldn't He say 'Arise an' walk' to Miss Maryllia? I do 'ope I'm not sinful, but I'm fair mazed when I see the Lord 'oldin' off 'is hand as 'twere, an' not doin' the right thing as 'e should do!"

Thus Mrs. Spruce argued, and it is to be feared that 'not doing the right thing' was rather generally attributed to 'the Lord,' by the good folk of St. Rest at that immediate period. Most of them were thirsting to try a little 'right' on their own account as concerned Oliver Leach. For the whole story was now known,—though had Maryllia not told it quite involuntarily in a state of semi- consciousness, she would never have betrayed the identity of her cowardly assailant. But finding that she had, unknowingly to herself, related the incident as it happened, there was nothing to be done on her part, except to entreat that Leach might be allowed to go unpunished. This, however, was a form of ultra-Christianity which did not in any way commend itself to the villagers of St. Rest. They were on the watch for him day and night,—scouts traversed the high road to Riversford from east to west, from north to south in the hope of meeting him driving along to the town as usual on his estate agency business, but not a sign of him had been seen since the evening of the fox-hunt, when Maryllia's body had been found in Farmer's Thorpe's field. Then, one of Adam Frost's eldest boys had noticed him talking to the Reverend Putwood Leveson at the entrance of the park surrounding Badsworth Hall, but since that time he had not shown himself, and enquiries at his cottage failed to elicit other information than that he was 'not at home.' The people generally suspected him of being 'in hiding,' and they were not far wrong.

One day, soon after her first move from her bedroom to the morning room, and when she had grown in part accustomed to being carried up and down, Maryllia suddenly expressed a wish to hear the village choir.

"I should like the children to come and sing to me,"—she said to Cicely—"You remember the hymn they sang on that one Sunday I went to church last summer—'The Lord is my Shepherd'? You sang it with them, Cicely,—and it was so very sweet! Couldn't they come up here to the Manor and sing it to me again?"

"Of course they could if you wish it, darling!" said Cicely, blinking away the tears that were only too ready to fall at every gentle request proffered by her friend—"And I'm sure they will! I'll go now and tell Miss Eden you want them."

"Yes, do!" said Maryllia, eagerly—"And, Cicely,—wait a minute! Have you seen Mr. Walden at all since I've been ill?"

"No,"—replied Cicely, quietly—"He has not been very well himself, so Dr. Forsyth says,—and he has not been about much except to perform service on Sundays, and to visit his sick parishioners—-"

"Well, I am a sick parishioner!" said Maryllia—"Why should he leave me out?"

Cicely looked at her very tenderly.

"I don't think he has left you out, darling! I fancy he has thought of you a great deal. He has sent to enquire after you every day."

Maryllia was silent for a minute. Then, with her own quaint little air of authority and decision, she said—

"Well!—I want to see him now. In fact, I must see him,—not only as a friend, but as a clergyman. Because you know I may not live very long—-"

"Maryllia!" cried Cicely, passionately—"Don't say that!"

"I won't, if you don't like it!" and Maryllia smiled up at her from her pillows—"But I think I should like to speak to Mr. Walden. So, as you will be passing the rectory on your way to fetch Miss Eden and the children, will you go in and ask him if he will come up and see me this afternoon?"

"I will!" And Cicely ran out of the room with a sense of sudden, inexplicable excitement which she could scarcely conceal. Quickly putting on her hat and cloak, she almost flew down the Manor avenue, regardless of the fact that it was raining dismally, and only noticing that there was a scent of violets in the air, and one or two glimmerings of yellow crocus peeping like golden spears through the wet mould. Arriving at the rectory, she forgot that she had not seen Walden at all since Maryllia's accident, and scarcely waiting for the maid Hester to announce her, she hastened into his study with startling suddenness. Springing from his chair, he confronted her with wild imploring eyes, and a face from which ever vestige of colour had fled.

"What is it?" he muttered faintly—"My God spare me!—she—she is not dead?"

"No, no!" cried Cicely, smitten to the heart with self-reproach at her own unthinking impetuosity—"No—no—NO! Oh what an utter idiot I am! Oh, Mr. Walden, I didn't think—I didn't know—oh, dear Mr. Walden, I'm so sorry I have alarmed you—do, do forgive me!—-" And she began to cry bitterly.

He looked at her vaguely for a moment,—anon his face relaxed, and his eyes softened. Advancing to her, he took both her hands and pressed them.

"Poor little Cicely!" he said, kindly—"So it is you, is it? Poor dear little singer!—you have had so much anxiety—and I—" He broke off and turned his head away. Then, after a pause, he resumed—"It's all right, Cicely! You—you startled me just a little—I scarcely knew you! You look so worn out, dear child, and no wonder! What can I do to cheer you? Is she—is she still going on well?"

Cicely raised her dark, tear-wet eyes to his in a kind of wistful wonder. Then she suddenly stooped and kissed the hands that held her own.

"Homage to a brave man!" she said, impulsively—"You ARE brave!— don't contradict me, because I won't stand it!" She detached her hands from his and tried to laugh. "Is she going on well, you ask? Yes,—as well as she can. But—you know she will be a cripple— always?"

Walden bent his head sadly.

"I know!"

"And it's all through those terrible 'Five Sister' beeches!" she went on—"If Oliver Leach had been allowed to cut them down, Maryllia would never have gone out to save them that morning, or given the wretched man his dismissal. And he wouldn't have cursed her, or tried to murder her!"

Walden shuddered a little.

"Then it is quite as much my fault as anybody else's, Cicely,"—he said, wearily—"For I had something to do with the saving of the old trees. At any rate, I did not exercise my authority as I might have done to pacify the villagers, when their destruction was threatened. I feel somehow that I my share of blame in the disaster."

"Nonsense!" snapped out Cicely, sharply, almost angrily—"Why should you take the sins of everyone in the parish on. your shoulders? Broad as they are, you can draw the line somewhere surely! You might as well blame poor old Josey Letherbarrow. He was the one who persuaded Maryllia to save the Five Sisters,—and if you were to tell him that all the trouble had come through him, he'd die! Poor old dear!" She laughed a trifle hysterically. "It's nobody's fault, I suppose. It's destiny."

John sighed heavily.

"Of course," went on Cicely desperately—"Maryllia may live a long time,—or she may not. She thinks not. And because she thinks not, she wants to see you."

He started nervously.

"To see ME?"

"Yes. It's perfectly natural, isn't it? Isn't it your business to visit the sick,—and—-" He interrupted her by a quick gesture.

"Not dying,"—he said—"I will not have the word used! She is not dying—she will not die! She shall not!"

His eyes flashed—he looked all at once like an inspired apostle with the gift of life in his hand. Cicely watched him with a sudden sense of awe.

"If you say so,"—she faltered slowly—"perhaps she will not. Go and see her!"

"To-day?"

"Yes,—this afternoon. She has asked for the school children to come and sing to her,—I shall try to get them about four. If you come at five, she will be able to see you—alone."

A silence fell between them.

"I will come!" said John, at last.

"That's right! Good-bye till then!"

And with a glance more expressive than words, Cicely went.

Left to himself, John threw open his study windows, and stepping out into his garden all wet with rain, made his way to its warmest corner, where, notwithstanding inclement weather, the loveliest sweet violets were thickly blossoming under his glass frames. He began to gather them carefully, and massed them together in bunches of deep purple and creamy white,—while Bainton, working at a little distance off, looked up in surprise and gratification at the sight of him. For it was many weary weeks since 'Passon' had taken any interest in his 'forced blooms.' Nebbie, having got thoroughly draggled and muddy by jumping wildly after his master through an exceedingly wet tangle of ivy, sat demurely watching him, as the little heap of delicately scented blossoms increased.

"The violets are doing wonderfully well this year, Bainton,"—he presently said, with his old kind smile, addressing his gardener—"I am taking these to Miss Vancourt this afternoon."

Bainton lifted his cap respectfully.

"God bless her!" he said,—"An' you too, Passon!"

And John, holding the fragrant bunch of small sweet flowers tenderly in his hand, answered gently—

"Thank you, my friend! I hope He will!"



XXXI

The rain cleared off in the afternoon and a bright glint of sunshine shone through the slowly dispersing clouds, enabling the children of the village choir to put on their best frocks and hats for the important function to which Cicely had summoned them. There was great excitement among these little people. That they should be specially asked to sing to Miss Vancourt was to them an unexpected and unprecedented honour, and filled them with speechless delight and pride. They were all very shy and nervous, however, and it was with quite a trembling awe that they scraped their feet on the polished oak floors of the Manor, and dragged them hesitatingly and timidly along into the morning room where Maryllia lay peacefully resting, and awaiting their approach. Her nurses had attired her freshly and becomingly, and had wrapped her in soft pale rose cashmere with delicate ribbons of the same hue tying it about her, while her lovely hair, loosely knotted on the top of her head, was caught together by a comb edged with pink coral which gave just the contrasting touch of colour to the gold-brown curls. She turned a smiling happy face on the children as they entered, and to Miss Eden and her young assistant, Susie Prescott, she held out her hand.

"It is so good of you to humour me in my fancy!" she said; "I loved the little hymn you all sang on the Sunday I came to church with my friends—don't you remember?—and I want to hear it again. I came in late to service that day, didn't I?—yes!—it was so wrong of me! But I should never do it again if I had the chance. Unfortunately we are always sorry for our wrong-doings too late!" She smiled again, and in answer to murmured words of sympathy from Miss Eden, and the sight of tears in the eyes of Susie Prescott, made haste to say—"Oh no!—I'm not in any pain just now. You need not think that. I am just helpless—that's all. But I've got all my reasoning faculties back, thank God!—and my sight has been spared. I can read and write, and enjoy music,—so you see how many blessings are still left to me! Will you ask the children to begin now, please? There is not a piano in this room,—but Cicely will play the accompaniment on the old spinet—it's quite in tune. And she will sing with you."

In another moment they were all grouped round the ancient instrument of Charles the Second's day, and Cicely, keeping her hands well pressed on the jingling ivory keys, managed to evoke from them something like a faint, far-off organ-like sound. Falteringly at first, and then more clearly and steadily, as Cicely's full round voice assisted them, the children sang—

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me down to lie In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by."

Maryllia listened, watching them. The declining sunlight, pale as it was, shed luminance upon the awkward stumpy boys, and bashfully shrinking girls, as with round, affectionate eyes fixed upon her, they went on tunefully—

"The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land, And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!"

Here, something like a sob interrupted the melody. Some one in the little choir broke down,—but Cicely covered the break with a tender chord, and the young voices rose above it.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray, But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray!"

With each verse, the harmony grew sweeter and more solemn, till Maryllia, lying back on her pillows with closed eyes through which the tears would creep despite herself, began to feel earth very far away and heaven very near. At the 'Amen,' she said:

"Thank you! That was beautiful! Do you mind singing the third verse over again?"

They obeyed, looking at Cicely for the lead.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want; My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!"

There was a silence.

"Now," breathed Cicely softly—"now the Amen!"

Full and grave came the solemn chord and the young fresh voices with it,—

"A—men!" And then Cicely went up to Maryllia and bent over her.

"Are you pleased, dearest?"

She was very quiet. There were tears in her eyes, but at the question, she smiled.

"Very pleased! And very happy! Take the children away now and give them tea. And thank them all for me,—say I will see them again some day when I am stronger—when I do not feel inclined to cry quite so easily!"

In a few minutes all the little scuffling shuffling feet had made their way out of the room, and Maryllia was left to herself in the deepening twilight,—a twilight illumined brightly every now and again by the leaping flame of a sparkling log fire. Suddenly the door which had just been closed after the children, gently opened again, and Cicely entering, said in rather a tremulous voice—

"Mr. Walden is here, Maryllia."

Whereat she quickly disappeared.

Maryllia turned her head round on her pillows and watched John's tall straight figure slowly approaching. A delicate, Spring-like odour floated to her as he came, and she saw that he carried a bunch of violets. Then she held out her hand.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Walden!"

He tried to speak, but could not. Without a word he laid the violets gently down on the silk coverlet of her couch. She took them up at once and kissed them.

"How sweet they are!" she murmured—"The first I have had given to me this year!"

She smiled up at him gratefully, and pointed to a chair close beside her.

"Will you sit near me?" she said—"And then we can talk!"

Silently he obeyed. To see her lying there so quietly resigned and helpless, nearly unmanned him, but he did brave battle with his own emotions. He took her little offered hand and gently kissed it. If to touch its soft smooth whiteness sent fire through his veins, there was no sign of feeling in his face. He was grave and strangely impassive.

"I am grieved to see you like this—-" he began.

"Yes, I am sure you are!" she quickly interrupted him—"But please do not talk about it just now! I want to forget my poor crippled body altogether for a little while. I've had so much bother with it lately! I want to talk to you about my soul. That's not crippled. And you can tell me just what it is and what I am to do with it."

He gazed at her in a kind of bewildered wonder.

"Your soul!"—he murmured,

"Yes." And a shadow of sad and wistful thought darkened her features—"You see I may not live very long,—and I ought to be properly prepared in case I die. I know you will explain everything that is difficult to me,—because you seem to be sure of your faith. You remember your sermon on the soul, when I came to church just that once?"

He bent his head. He could find no words with which to interrupt her.

"Well, I have often thought of it since,—and I have longed—oh, so much!—to make a confession to you! But may I ask you one or two questions first?"

His dry lips moved—and he whispered, rather than spoke—

"You may! But are you not distressing yourself about matters which— which perhaps—could wait—-?"

Her blue eyes regarded him with a wonderful courage.

"Dear Mr. Walden, I don't think I ought to wait,"—she said, very earnestly—"Because really no one has ever done anything for me in a religious sense,—and if I AM to die, you are the only person in the world who can help me."

He tried to rouse his wandering, ebbing energies.

"I will do my best,"—he said, slowly—"My best, I mean, to answer your questions."

"You will?—As a clergyman, as a friend and an honest man?—yes, I felt sure you would!" And she spoke with almost passionate eagerness—"I will put you through your catechism, and you shall, if you like, put me through mine! Now to begin with,—though it seems a strange thing to ask a clergyman-do you really believe in God?"

He started,—wakened from his trance of mind by sheer amazement.

"Do I really believe in God? With all my soul, with all my heart, I believe in Him!"

"Many clergymen don't,"—said Maryllia, gravely studying his face,— "That is why I asked. You mustn't mind! You see I have met a great many Churchmen who preach what they do not practise, and it has rather worried me. Because, of course, if they really believed in God they would he careful not to do things which their faith forbids them to do."

He was silent.

"My next question is just as audacious as my first,"—she went on after a pause—"It is this—do you believe in Christ?"

He rose from his chair and stood tenderly looking down upon her. His old authoritative energy inspired him,—he had now recovered himself sufficiently to be able to trample down his own clamorous personal emotions for the time and to think only of his spiritual duty.

"I believe in Him as the one Divine Man ever born!" he said.

"Is that quite sufficient for orthodoxy?" And she looked up at him with a half smile.

"Perhaps not! But I fear orthodoxy and I are scarcely the best of friends!" he replied—"Must I really tell you my own private form of belief?"

"Ah yes!—please do so!" she answered gently—"It will help me so much!"

He paused a moment. Then he said—

"I believe this,—that Christ was born into the world as a Sign and Symbol of the life, death and destined immortality of each individual human soul. Into the mystery of His birth I do not presume to penetrate. But I see Him as He lived,—the embodiment of Truth—crucified! I see Him dead,—rising from the grave to take upon Himself eternal life. I accept Him as the true manifestation of the possible Divine in Man—for no man before or after Him has had such influence upon the human race. And I am convinced that the faithful following of His Gospel ensures peace in this world, and joy in the world to come!"

He paused, and drew nearer to her. "Will that suffice you?"

Her eyes were turned away from his, but he could see a sparkle as of dew on her lashes.

"Sit down by me again,"—she said in a low uncertain voice—"You do believe!—and now that I know this for certain, I can make my confession to you."

He resumed his seat beside her couch.

"Surely you have nothing to confess—" he said, gently.

"Why yes, I have!" she declared—"I've not been good, you know!"

He smiled.

"Have you not?" But his voice trembled a little—"Well! I suppose I must believe you—but it will be difficult!"

She looked down at the bunch of violets she held, and touched the purple and white blossoms tenderly.

"I don't mean,"—she continued softly—"that I have been downright wicked in a criminal sense. Oh no!—I haven't anything to confess that way! What I mean is that I haven't been religious. Now please let me go straight on and explain—will you?"

He made a slight gesture of assent.

"Well now, to begin with," she said—"of course when I was quite a child, I was taught to say prayers, and I was taken to church on Sundays just in the usual way. But I never could quite believe there was anyone to listen to my prayers, and going to church bored me and made me dreadfully sleepy. All the clergymen seemed to talk and preach in exactly the same way, and they all spoke in the same sing- song voice. I found it very dull and monotonous. I was told that God lived up in the sky, and that He loved me very much and would take care of me always,—but I never could make out why, if God loved me, He should not tell me so Himself, without the help of a clergyman. Because then I should have understood things better. I daresay it was a very wicked idea,—but it used to come into my head like that, and I couldn't help it. Then, everything in my life as a child came to an end with a great crash as it were, when my father was killed. I adored my father! He was always kind to me,—always tender!—he was the only man in the world that ever loved me! And when he was taken away suddenly from me like that, and I was told it was God's will, I hated God! I did really! You know unless you are a born angel, it is natural to hate anyone who takes away the dearest and most beloved thing you have to live for, isn't it?"

John turned his head a little away, and looked straight before him into the glowing embers of the fire. A deep sigh involuntarily escaped him.

"I suppose it is natural!" he said, slowly—"But we must fight against nature. We must believe that God knows best!"

Her eyes, blue as flax-flowers, turned towards him wistfully.

"You believe that?" she asked—"You are sure that God means everything for the best, even when He makes you suffer for no fault of your own?"

At this his heart was sorely troubled within him, but he answered quietly and firmly—

"Yes! I am sure that God means everything for the best, even when He makes me suffer for no fault of my own!"

His voice, always soft and mellow, dropped to a tenderer cadence, as,—like a true servant of the Master he served,—he faithfully asserted his belief, that even in personal sorrow, the Divine will is always a Divine blessing.

A pause of silence ensued. Then Maryllia went on somewhat hesitatingly—

"Well, I was wicked, you see! I could NOT believe that God meant it for the best in killing my father! And I know that my father himself never could understand that God was at all good in allowing my mother to die when I was born. So that I was quite set against God, when, after my father's death, Uncle Fred and his wife came and took me away to live with them, and adopted me as their daughter. And living with them, and being always surrounded by the society they entertained, made me forget religion altogether. They never went to church,—neither did any of the people they called their friends. Indeed nobody I ever met in all the 'sets' of London, or Paris, or New York ever seemed to think of God or a future life at all. Some of them went in for what they called 'spiritualism' and deceived each other in the most terrible way! I never heard people tell so many dreadful lies! They used to joke about it afterwards. But no one ever seemed to think that religion,—real religion—real Christianity—was at all necessary or worth talking about. They called it an 'exploded myth.' When I met Cicely Bourne I found that SHE believed in it. And I was quite surprised! Because she had such a hard life, and she had always been so cruelly treated, that I wondered how she could believe in anything. But she told me that when she knew she had a voice and a gift for music, she used to pray that an angel might be sent to help her,—and when I asked her—'Did the angel come?' she said that God had sent ME as the angel! Of course it wasn't true, but it was very sweet of her to say it!"

She paused. Walden was quite silent. Leaning his elbow on the raised head of her couch, he shaded his brow with one hand, thus partially covering his eyes from the glow of the fire. There were tears in those eyes, and he was afraid she would see them.

"Cicely was always so brave and contented,"—she presently continued—"And as I learned to know more of her I began to wonder if really after all, her religion helped her? And then there came a time of great worry and trouble for me—and—I came home here to try and find peace and rest—and I met YOU!"

He moved restlessly, but said nothing.

"To meet you was an event in my life!" she said, turning. towards him a little, and laying her hand timidly on his coat sleeve—"It was really!"

He looked at her,—and a wave of warmth passed over his face.

"Was it?" he murmured.

"Of course it was!" she declared,—and almost she laughed—"You won't understand me, I daresay!—but to meet you. for the first time is a kind of event to most people! They begin to think about you,— they can't help it! You are so different from the ordinary sort of clergyman,—I don't know how or why,—but you are!"

He smiled a trifle sadly.

"Talk of yourself, not of me,"—he said, uneasily.

"Yes, but I cannot very well talk of myself now without bringing you into it,"—she insisted,—"And you must let me tell my story in my own way!"

He shaded his eyes again from the firelight, and listened.

"After I met you that morning," she went on—"I heard many things about you in the village. Everyone seemed to love you!—yes, even the tiniest children! The poor people, the old and the sick, all seemed to trust you as their truest and best friend! And when I knew all this I began to think very earnestly about the religious faith which seemed to make you what you are. I didn't go to church to hear you preach—you know that!—I only went once—and I was late—you remember?—So it has not been anything you have said in the pulpit that has changed me so much. It is just YOU, yourself! It is because you live your life as you do that I want to learn to live the rest of mine just a little bit like it, even though I am crippled and more or less useless. You will teach me, won't you? I want to have your faith—your goodness—-"

He interrupted her.

"Do not call me good!" he said, faintly—"I cannot bear it—I cannot!"

She looked at him, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm afraid you will have to bear it!" she said, softly—"For you ARE good!—you have always been good to ME! And I do honestly believe that God means everything for the best as you say, because now I am a cripple, I have escaped once and for all from the marriage my aunt was trying to force me into with Lord Roxmouth. I thank God every minute of my life for that!"

"You never loved him?"

John's voice was very low and tremulous as he asked this question.

"Never!" she answered, in the same low tone. "How could you think it?"

"I did not know—I was not quite sure—-" he murmured.

"No, I never loved him!" she said, earnestly—"I always feared and hated him! And he did not love me,—he only cared for the money my aunt would have left me had I married him. But I have always wanted to be loved for myself—and this has been my great trouble. If anyone had ever really cared for me, I think it would have made me good and wise and full of trust in God—I should have been a much better woman than I am—I am sure I should! People say that the love I want is only found in poems and story books, and that my fancies are quite ridiculous. Perhaps they are. But I can't help it. I am just myself and no other!" She smiled a little—then went on—"Lord Roxmouth has a great social position,—but, to my mind, he has degraded it. I could not have married a man for whom I had no respect. You see I can talk quite easily about all this because it is past. For of course now I am a cripple, the very idea of marriage for me is all over. And I am really very glad it is so. No one can spread calumnies about me, or compromise my name any more. And even the harm Lord Roxmouth meant to try and do to YOU, has been stopped. So this time God HAS answered my prayers."

John looked up suddenly.

"Did you pray—-?" he began in a choked voice-then checked himself, and said quickly—"Dear child, I do not think Lord Roxmouth could have ever done me any harm!"

"Ah, you don't know him as I do!" and she sighed—"He stops at nothing. He will employ any base tool, any mean spy, to gain his own immediate purposes. And—and—" she hesitated—"you know I wrote to you about it—-he saw us in the picture gallery—-"

"Well!" said John, and his eyes kindled into a sudden light and fire—"What if he did?"

"You were telling me how much you disliked seeing women smoke"—she faltered—"And—and—you spoke of Psyche,—you remember—-"

"I remember!" And John grew bolder and more resolute in spirit as he saw the soft rose flush on her cheeks and listened to the dulcet tremor of her voice—"I shall never forget!"

"And he thought—he thought—-" here her words sank almost to a whisper—"that I—that you—-"

He turned suddenly and looked down upon her where she lay. Their eyes met,—and in that one glance, love flashed a whole unwritten history. Stooping over her, he caught her little hands in his own, and pressed them against his heart with strong and passionate tenderness.

"If he thought I loved you,"—he said—"he was right! I loved you then—I love you now!—I shall love you for ever—till death, and beyond it! My darling, my darling! You know I love you!"

A half sob, a little smile answered him,—and then soft, broken words.

"Yes—I know!—I always knew!"

He folded his arms about her, and drew her into an embrace from which he wildly thought not Death itself should tear her.

"And you care?" he whispered.

"I care so much that I care for nothing else!" she said—then, all suddenly she broke down and began to weep pitifully, clinging to him and murmuring the grief she had till now so bravely restrained—"But it is all too late!" she sobbed—"Oh my dearest, you love me,—and I love you,—ah!—you will never know how much!—but it is too late!— I can be of no use to you!—I can never be of use! I shall only be a trouble to you,—a drag and a burden on your days!—oh John!—and a little while ago I might have been your joy instead of your sorrow!"

He held her to him more closely.

"Hush, hush!" he said softly, soothing her as he would have soothed a child,—and with mingled tenderness and reverence, he kissed the sweet trembling lips, the wet eyes, the tear-stained cheeks—"Hush, my little girl! You are all my joy in this world—can you not feel that you are?" And he kissed her again and yet again. "And I am so unworthy of you!—so old and worn and altogether unpleasing to a woman—I am nothing! Yet you love me! How strange that seems!—how wonderful!—for I have done nothing to deserve your love. And had you been spared your health and strength, I should never have spoken—never! I would not have clouded your sunny life with my selfish shadow. No! I should have let you go on your way and have kept silence to the end! For in all your vital brightness and beauty I should never have dared to say I love you, Maryllia!"

At this she checked her sobs, and looked up at him in vague amazement.

"You would never have spoken?"

"Never!"

"You would have let me live on here, quite close to you, seeing you every day, perhaps, without a word of the love in your heart?"

He kissed her, half-smiling.

"I think I should!"

"Then"—said Maryllia, with grave sweetness—"I know that God does mean everything for the best—and I thank Him for having made me a cripple! Because if my trouble has warmed your heart,—your cold, cold heart, John!"—and she smiled at him through her tears—"and has made you say you love me, then it is the most blessed and beautiful trouble I could possibly have, and has brought me the greatest happiness of my life! I am glad of it and proud of it,—I glory in it! For I would rather know that you love me than be the straightest, brightest, loveliest woman in the world! I would rather be here in your arms—so—" and she nestled close against him—"than have all the riches that were ever counted!—and—listen, John!" Here, with her clinging, caressing arms, she drew his head down close to her breast—"Even if I have to die and leave you soon, I shall know that all is right with my soul!—yes, dear, dear John!— because you will have taken away all its faults and made it beautiful with your love!—and God will love it for love's sake, almost as much as He must love you for your own, John!"

There was only one way—there never has been more than one way—to answer such tender words, and John took that way by silencing the sweet lips that spoke them with a kiss in which the pent-up passion of his soul was concentrated. The shadows of the winter gloaming deepened;—the firelight died down to a mass of rosy embers;-and when Cicely softly opened the door an hour later, the room was almost dark. But the scent of violets was in the air—she heard soft whisperings, and saw that two human beings at least, out of all a seeking world, had found the secret of happiness. And she stole away unseen, smiling, yet with glad tears in her eyes, and a little unuttered song in her heart—

"If to love is the best of all things known, We have gain'd the best in the world, mine own! We have touch'd the summit of love—and live God Himself has no more to give!"



XXXII

The prime of youth is said to be the only time of life when lovers are supposed by poets and romancists to walk 'on air,' so as John Walden was long past the age when men are called young, it is difficult to determine the kind of buoyant element on which he trod when he left the Manor that evening. Youth!—what were its vague inchoate emotions, its trembling hesitations, its more or less selfish jealousies, doubts and desires, compared to the strong, glowing and tender passion which filled the heart of this man, so long a solitary in the world, who now awaking to the consciousness of love in its noblest, purest form, knew that from henceforth he was no longer alone! A life,—delicate and half broken by cruel destiny, hung on his for support, help and courage,—a soul, full of sweetness and purity, clung to him for its hope of Heaven! The glad blood quickened in his veins,—he was twice a man,—never had he felt so proud, so powerful, and withal so young. Like the Psalmist he could have said 'My days are renewed upon the earth'—and he devoutly thanked God for the blessing and glory of the gift of love which above all others makes existence sweet.

"My darling!" he murmured, as he walked joyously along the little distance stretching between the lodge gates of the Manor and his own home—"She shall never miss one joy that I can give her! How fortunate it is that I am tall and strong, for when the summer days come I can lift her from her couch and carry her out into the garden like a little child in my arms, and she will rest under the trees, and perhaps gradually get accustomed to the loss of her own bright vitality if I do my utmost best to be all life to her! I will fill her days with varied occupations and try to make the time pass sweetly,—she shall keep all her interests in the village—nothing shall be done without her consent—ah yes!—I know I shall be able to make her happier than she would be if left to bear her trouble quite alone! If she were strong and well, I should be no fit partner for her—but as it is—perhaps my love may comfort her, and my unworthiness be forgiven!"

Thus thinking, he arrived at his rectory, and entering, pushed open the door of his study. There, somewhat to his surprise, he found Dr. 'Jimmy' Forsyth standing in a meditative attitude with his back to the fire.

"Hullo, Walden!" he said—"Here you are at last! I've been waiting for you ever so long!"

"Have you?" and John, smiling radiantly, threw off his hat, and pushed back his grey-brown curls from his forehead—"I'm sorry! Anything wrong?" Dr. 'Jimmy' shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing particular. Oliver Leach is dead,—that's all!"

Walden started back. The smile passed from his face, for, remembering the scarcely veiled threats of his parishioners, he began to fear lest they should have taken some unlawful vengeance on the object of their hatred.

"Dead!" he echoed amazedly—"Surely no one—no one has killed him?"

"Not a bit of it!" said Forsyth, complacently—"It just happened!"

"How?"

"Well, it appears that the rascal has been lying low for a considerable time in the house of our reverend friend, Putwood Leveson. That noble soul has been playing 'sanctuary' to him, and no doubt warned him of the very warm feeling with which the villagers of St. Rest regarded him. He has been maturing certain plans, and waiting till an opportunity should arise for him to get away to Riversford, where apparently he intended to take up his future abode, Mordaunt Appleby the brewer having offered him a situation as brewery accountant. The opportunity occurred last night, so I hear. He managed to get off with his luggage in a trap, and duly arrived at the Crown Inn. There he was set upon in the taproom by certain old friends and gambling associates, who accused him of wilfully attempting to injure Miss Vancourt. He denied it. Thereupon they challenged him to drink ten glasses of raw whiskey, one on top of another, to prove his innocence. It was a base and brutal business, but he accepted the challenge. At the eighth glass he fell down unconscious. His companions thought he was merely drunk—but—as it turned out—he was dead." [Footnote: This incident happened lately in a village in the south of England.]

Walden heard in silence.

"It's horrible!" he said at last—"Yet—I cannot say sorry! I suppose as a Christian minister I ought to be,—but I'm not! I only hope none of my people were concerned in the matter?"

"You may be quite easy on that score,"—replied Forsyth—"Of course there will be an inquest, and a severe reproof will be administered to the men who challenged him,—but there the affair will end. I really don't think we need grieve ourselves unduly over the exit of one scoundrel from a world already overburdened with his species." With that, he turned and poked the fire into a brighter blaze. "Let us talk of something else"—he said. "I called in to tell you that Santori is in London, and that I have taken the responsibility upon myself of sending for him to see Miss Vancourt."

Walden was instantly all earnest attention.

"Who is Santori?" he asked.

"Santori," replied Forsyth, "is a great Italian, whose scientific researches into medicine and surgery have won him the honour of all nations, save and except the British. We are very insular, my dear Walden!—we never will tolerate the 'furriner' even if he brings us health and healing in his hand! Santori is a medical 'furriner,' therefore he is generally despised by the English medical profession. But I'm a Scotsman—I've no prejudices except my own!" And he laughed—"And I acknowledge Santori as one of the greatest men of the age. He is a scientist as well as a surgeon—and his great 'speciality' is the spine and nerves. Now I have never quite explained to you the nature of Miss Vancourt's injuries, and there is no need even now to particularise them. The main point of her case is that in the condition she is now, she must remain a cripple for life,—and" here he hesitated,—"that life cannot, I fear, be a very long one."

Walden turned his head away for a moment.

"Go on!" he said huskily.

"At the same time," continued Dr. Forsyth, gently—"there are no bones broken,—all the mischief is centred in damage to the spine. I sent, as you know, for Wentworth Glynn, our best specialist in this country, and he assured me there was no hope whatever of any change for the better. Yesterday, I happened to see in the papers that Santori had arrived in London for a few weeks, and, acting on a sudden inspiration, I wrote him a letter at once, explaining the whole case, and asking him to meet me in consultation. He has wired an answer to-day, saying he will be here to-morrow."

Walden's eyes were full of sorrowful pain and yearning.

"Well!" he said, with a slight sigh—"And what then?"

"What then?" responded Dr. 'Jimmy' cheerfully—"Why nothing,—except that it will be more satisfactory to everyone concerned,—and to me particularly—to have his opinion."

There was a pause. John gazed down into the fire as though he saw a whole world of mingled grief and joy reflected in its crimson glow. Then, suddenly lifting his head, he looked his friend full in the face.

"Forsyth,"—he said—"I think I ought to tell you—you ought to know—I am going to marry her!"

Without a word, 'Jimmy' gripped his hand and pressed it hard. Then he turned very abruptly, and walked up and down the little room. And presently he drew out his glasses and polished them vigorously though they were in no need of this process.

"I thought you would!" he said, after a while—"Of course I saw how the land lay! I knew you loved her—-"

"I suppose that was easy to guess!" said John, a warm flush of colour rising to his brows as he spoke—"But you could not have imagined for a moment that she would love me! Yet she does! That is the wonder of it! I am such an old humdrum fellow—and she is so young and bright and pretty! It seems so strange that she should care!"

Dr. Forsyth looked at him with an appreciative twinkle in his eye. Then he laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder,

"You are a quaint creature, John!" he said—"Yet, do you know, I rather like your humdrum ways? I do, positively! And if I were a woman, I think I should esteem myself fortunate if I got you for a husband! I really should! You certainly don't suffer from swelled head, John—that's a great point in your favour!"

He laughed,—and John laughed with him. Then, drawing their chairs to opposite sides of the fire, they talked for an hour or more on the subject that was most interesting to them both, John was for marrying Maryllia as soon as possible—"in order that I may have the right to watch over her," he urged, and Forsyth agreed.

"But wait till Santori has seen her, and given his opinion,"—he said—"If he comes, as his telegram says he will to-morrow, we can take him entirely into our confidence, to decide what is best for her peace and pleasure. The ceremony of marriage can be gone through privately at the Manor,—by the way, why don't you ask your friend the Bishop to officiate? I suppose he knows the position?"

"He knows much, but not all,"—said John—"I wrote to him about the accident of course—and have written to him frequently since, but I did not think I should ever have such news to tell him as I have now!" His eyes darkened with deep feeling. "He has had his own tragedy—he will understand mine!"

A silence fell between them,—and soon after, Forsyth took his leave. Walden, left alone, and deeply conscious of the new responsibility he had taken upon his life, set to work to get through his parish business for the evening, in order to have time to devote to Maryllia the next day, and, writing a long letter to Bishop Brent, he told him all the history of his late-found happiness,—his hopes, his sorrows, his fears—and his intention to show what a man's true love could be to a woman whom unkind destiny had deprived of all the natural joys of living. He added to this letter a few words referring to Forsyth's information respecting the Italian specialist, Santori, who had been sent for to see Maryllia and pronounce on her condition—"but I fear," he wrote, "that there is nothing to be done, save to resign ourselves to the apparently cruel and incomprehensible will of God, which in this case has declared itself in favour of allowing the innocent to suffer."

Next morning he awoke to find the sun shining brightly from a sky almost clear blue, save for a few scattered grey fleecy clouds,— and, stepping out into his garden, the first thing he noticed was a root of primroses breaking shyly into flower. Seeing Bainton trimming the shrubbery close by, he called his attention to it.

"Spring is evidently on the way, Bainton!" he said cheerily, "We are getting past the white into the gold again!"

"Ay, Passon, that we be!" rejoined Bainton, with a smile—"An' please the Lord, we'll soon get from the gold into the blue, an' from the blue into the rose! For that's allus the way o' the year,— first little white shaky blossoms wot's a bit afraid of theirselves, lest the frost should nip 'em,—and then the deep an' the pale an' the bright gold blossoms, which just laughs at dull weather—an' then the blue o' the forget-me-nots an' wood-bells,—an' the red o' the roses to crown all. An' mebbe," he continued, with a shrewd upward glance at his master's face—"when the roses come, there'll be a bit of orange-blossom to keep 'em company—-"

John started,—and then his kind smile, so warm and sunny and sweet, shone like a beam of light itself across his features.

"What, Bainton!" he said—"So you know all about it already!"

Bainton began to chuckle irrepressibly.

"Well, if the village ain't a liar from its one end to its t'otherest, then I knows!" he declared triumphantly—"Lord love ye, Passon, you don't s'pose ye can keep any secrets in this 'ere parish? They knows all about ye 'fore ye knows yerself!—an' Missis Spruce she came down from the Manor last night in such a state o' fluster as never was, an' she sez, all shakin' like an' smilin'— 'Miss Maryllia's goin' to be married,' sez she, an' we up an' sez to 'er—'What, is the Dook goin' to 'ave her just the same though she can't walk no more?' an' she sez: 'Dook, not a bit of it! There's a better man than any Dook close by an' it's 'im she's goin' to 'ave an' nobody else, an' it's Passon Walden,' sez she, an' with that we all gives a big shout, an' she busts out cryin' an' laughin' together, an' we all doos the same like the nesh fools we are when a bit o' news pleases us like,—an'—an'—-" Here Bainton's voice grew rather husky and tremulous as he proceeded—"so of course the news went right through the village two minutes arterwards. An' it's all we could do to keep from comin' up outside 'ere an' givin' ye a rousin' cheer 'fore goin' to bed, onny Mr. Netlips 'e said it wouldn't be 'commensurate,' wotever that is, so we just left it. Howsomever, I made up my mind I'd be the first to wish ye joy, Passon!—an' I wish it true!"

Silently Walden held out his hand. Bainton grasped it with affectionate respect in his own horny palm.

"Not that I'd 'ave ever thought you'd a' bin a marryin' man, Passon!" he averred, his shrewd eyes lighting up with the kindliest humour—"But it's never too late to mend!"

Walden laughed.

"That's true, Bainton! It's never too late to repent of one's follies and begin to be wise! Thank you for all your good wishes— they come from the heart, I know! But"—and his smile softened into an earnest gravity of expression—"they must be for her—for Miss Maryllia—not for me! I am already happier than I deserve—but she needs everyone's good thoughts and prayers to help her to bear her enforced helplessness—she is very brave—yet—it is hard—-"

He broke off, not trusting himself to say more.

"It's hard—it's powerful hard!" agreed Bainton, sympathetically— "Such a wife as she'd a' made t'ye, Passon, if she'd been as she was when she come in smilin' an' trippin' across this lawn by your side, an' ye broke off a bit o' your best lilac for her! There's the very bush—all leafless twigs now, but strong an' 'elthy an' ready to bloom again! Ah! I remember that day well!—'twas the same day as ye sat under the apple tree arter she was gone an' fastened a threepenny bit with a 'ole in it to ye're watch chain! I seed it! An' I was fair mazed over that 'oley bit,—but I found out all about it!—hor-hor-hor!" and Bainton began to laugh with exceeding delight at his own perspicuity—"A few minutes' gossip with old Missis Tapple at the post-office did it!—hor-hor-hor! for she told me, bless 'er heart!—as 'ow Miss Vancourt 'ad given it t'ye for fun, as a sort o' reward like for sendin' off some telegrams for 'er! Hor- hor! There's naught like a village for findin' out everybody's little secrets, an' our village beats every other one I ever heard tell on at that kind o' work, it do reely now! I say, Passon, when they was spreadin' all the stories round about you an' Miss Vancourt, I could a' told a tale about the 'oley bit, couldn't I?"

"You could indeed!" laughed John, good-naturedly—"and yet—I suppose you didn't!"

"Not I!" said Bainton, stoutly—"I do talk a bit, but I ain't Missis Spruce, nor I ain't turned into a telephone tube yet. Mebbe I will when I'm a bit older. 'Ave ye heard, Passon, as 'ow Oliver Leach is dead?"

"Yes,—Dr. Forsyth told me last night."

"Now d'ye think a man like 'im is gone to Heaven!" demanded Bainton- -"Honest an' true, d'ye think the Lord Almighty wants 'im?"

John was rather non-plussed. His garrulous gardener watched his face with attentive interest.

"Don't ye answer unless ye like, Passon!" he observed, sagaciously— "I don't want to make ye say things which ain't orthodox! You keep a still tongue, an' I shall understand!"

John took the hint. He 'kept a still tongue'—and turned back from the garden into the house. Bainton chuckled softly.

"Passon can't lie!" he said to himself—"He couldn't do it to save his life! That's just the best of 'im! Now if he'd begun tellin' me that he was sure that blackhearted rascal 'ad gone to keep company with the angels I'd a nigh despised im!—I would reely now!"

That same morning, when John walked up to the Manor again, he entered it as a privileged person, invested with new authority. Cicely ran to meet him, and frankly put up her face to be kissed.

"A thousand and one congratulations!" she said—"I knew this would come!—I was sure of it! But the credit of the first guess is due to the Mooncalf,—Julian, you know!—he's a poet, and he made up a whole romance about you and Maryllia the first day he ever saw you with her!"

"Did he?"—and Walden smiled—"Well, he was right! I am very happy, Cicely!"

"So am I!" And the 'Goblin' clasped her hands affectionately across his arm—"You are just the very man I should have chosen for Maryllia!—the only man, in fact—I've never met anybody else worthy of her! But oh, if she were only strong and well! Do you know that Dr. Forsyth is bringing another specialist to see her this afternoon?"

"Yes, I know!"

"And there's other news for you this morning"—pursued Cicely, a broad smile lighting up her face and eyes—"Very amusing news! Lord Roxmouth is married!"

"Married!" exclaimed Walden, incredulously—"Not possible!"

"Come and see the wedding cards!"—and Cicely, laughing outright, caught his hand, and pulled him along into the morning room, where Maryllia, with her couch turned so that she could see the first glimpse of her lover as he entered the doorway, was eagerly awaiting his approach—"Maryllia, here's John! Prove to him at once please that Mrs. Fred's millions are lost to you forever!"

Maryllia laughed, and blushed sweetly too, as John bent over her and kissed her with a very expressive look of tenderness, not to say proprietorship.

"It's true, John!" she said—"Lord Roxmouth has married Aunt Emily!"

John's blue eyes lighted with sudden laughter.

"Well done!" he exclaimed, gaily—"Anything for the millions, evidently! What a comfort to think he has secured them at last! And so you have become the niece instead of the wife of the future duke, my Maryllia! When and where were they married?"

"Last week at the Embassy in Paris. Cicely wrote to Aunt Emily at New Year, telling her that though I was much better, the doctors had said I should be a cripple for life. Well, we never had any answer at all to that letter,—not a word of regret, or affection or sympathy. Then,—this morning—behold!—the Roxmouth wedding cards!"

She took a silver-bordered envelope lying on a little table close beside her, and drawing out from it the cards in question, held them up to his view. Walden glanced at them with a touch of contempt.

"Shall I wire our united heartiest congratulations?" he queried, smiling—"And add that we are engaged to be married?"

"Do!" said Maryllia, clasping his hand in her own and kissing it— "Go and send the wire off through dear old Mrs. Tapple! And then all the village will know how happy I am!"

"How happy WE are,"—corrected John—"I think they know that already, Maryllia! But it shall be well impressed upon them!"

Later on, when he was in the village, making his usual round of visits among the sick and poor, and receiving the affectionate good wishes of many who had heard the news of his betrothal, he saw Dr. Forsyth driving up to the Manor in his gig with another man beside him, who, as he rightly guessed, was no other than the celebrated Italian specialist, Santori. Forsyth had promised to come and tell him the result of the consultation as soon as he knew it himself, and Walden waited for him hour after hour with increasing impatience. At last he appeared,—pale, and evidently under the influence of some strongly suppressed excitement.

"Walden,"—he said, without preface or hesitation—"are you prepared to face a great crisis?"

Walden's heart almost stood still. Had anything happened to Maryllia in the short space of time which had elapsed since he saw her last?

"What do you mean?!" he faltered—"I could not bear to lose her— now—-"

"You must lose her in a year at the utmost, if you do not run the risk of losing her to save her now,"—said Forsyth, bluntly— "Santori has seen her—and—keep cool, John!—he says there is just one chance of restoring her to her former health and activity again, but it is a chance fraught with imminent danger to her life. He will not risk it without her full consent,—and (knowing you are her betrothed husband)—yours. It is a very serious and difficult operation,—she may live through it, and she may not."

"I will not have it!" said Walden, quickly, almost fiercely, "She shall not be touched—-"

"Wait!" continued Forsyth, regarding him steadily—"In her present condition, she will die in a year. She must. There is no help for it. If Santori operates—and he is quite willing to undertake it— she may live,—and not only may she live, but she may be absolutely strong and well again,—able to walk and ride, and enjoy her life to the full. It rests with her and with you to decide,—yes or no!"

Walden was silent.

"I may as well tell you,"—went on Forsyth—"that she—Miss Vancourt herself,—is ready to risk it. Santori has gone back to London to- night,—but if we agree to place her under his hands he will come and perform the operation next week."

"Next week!" murmured Walden, faintly—"Must it be so soon?"

"The sooner the better,"—said Forsyth, quietly, yet firmly, "Come, John, face this thing out! I am thinking of the chance of her happiness as well as yours. Is it worth while to sacrifice the whole of a young life's possible activity for the sake of one year's certainty of helplessness with death at the end? Wrestle the facts out with yourself;—go and see her to-night. And after you have talked it over together, let me know."

He went out then, and left Walden alone to face this new dark cloud of anxiety and suspense that seemed to loom over a sky which he imagined had just cleared. But when he saw Maryllia that evening, her face reflected nothing but sunshine, and her eyes were radiant with hope.

"I must take this chance, John!" she said—"Do not withhold your consent! Think what it means to us both if this great surgeon is able to set me on my feet again!—and he is so kind and gentle!—he says he has every hope of success! What happiness it will be for me if I can be all in all to you, John!—a real true wife, instead of a poor helpless invalid dependent on your daily care!—oh John, let me show you how much I love you by facing this ordeal, and trying to save my life for your sake!"

He drew her into his arms, and folded her close to his heart.

"My child—my darling! If you wish it, it shall be done!" he murmured brokenly—"And may God in His great mercy be good to us both! But if you die, my Maryllia, I shall die too—so we shall still be together!"

So it was settled; and Dr. Forsyth, vacillating uneasily between hope and fear, communicated the decision at once to the famous Italian surgeon, who, without any delay or hesitation responded by promptly fixing a day in the ensuing week for his performance of the critical task which was either to kill or cure a woman who to one man was the dearest of all earth's creatures. And with such dreadful rapidity did the hours fly towards that day that Walden experienced in himself all the trembling horrors of a condemned criminal who knows that his execution is fixed for a certain moment to which Time itself seems racing like a relentless bloodhound, sure of its quarry. Writing to Bishop Brent he told him all, and thus concluded his letter:—

"If I lose her now—now, after the joy of knowing that she loves me- -I shall kneel before you broken-hearted and implore your forgiveness for ever having called you selfish in the extremity of your grief and despair for the loss of love. For I am myself utterly selfish to the heart's core, and though I say every night in my prayers 'Thy Will be done,' I know that if she is taken from me I shall rebel against that Will! For I am only human,—and make no pretence to be more than a man who loves greatly."

During this interval of suspense Cicely and Julian were thrown much together. Every moment that Walden could spare from his parish work, he passed by the side of his beloved, knowing that his presence made her happy, and fearing that these days might be his last with her on earth. Maryllia herself however seemed to have no such forebodings. She was wonderfully bright and cheerful, and though her body was so helpless her face was radiant with such perfect happiness that it looked as fair as that of any pictured angel. Cicely, recognising the nature of the ordeal through which these two lovers were passing, left them as much by themselves as possible, and laid upon Julian the burden of her own particular terrors which she was at no pains to conceal. And unfortunately Julian did not, under the immediate circumstances, prove a very cheery comforter.

"I hate the knife!" he said, gloomily—"Everyone is cut up or slashed about in these days—there's too much of it altogether. If ever a fruit pip goes the way it should not go into my interior mechanism, I hope it may be left there to sprout up into a tree if it likes—I don't mind, so long as I'm not sliced up for appendicitis or pipcitis or whatever it is."

"I wonder what our great-grandparents used to do when they were ill?" queried Cicely, with a melancholy stare in her big, pitiful dark eyes.

"They let blood,"—replied Julian—"They used to go to the barber's and get a vein cut at the same time as their hair. Of course it was all wrong. We all know now that it was very wrong. In another hundred years or so we shall find out that twentieth-century surgery was just as wrong."

Cicely clasped her hands nervously.

"Oh, don' you think Maryllia will come through the operation all right?" she implored, for about the hundredth time in the course of two days.

Julian looked away from her.

"I don't know—and I don't like to express any opinion about it,"— he answered, with careful gentleness—"But there is danger—and—if the worst should happen—-"

"It won't happen! It shan't happen!" cried Cicely passionately.

"Dear little singing Goblin, I wish you could control fate!" And, taking her hand, he patted it affectionately. "Everything would be all right for everybody if you could make it so, I'm sure!—even for me! Wouldn't it?"

Cicely blushed suddenly.

"I don't know,"—she said—"I never think about you!"

He smiled.

"Don't you? Well,—perhaps some day you will! When you are a great prima donna, you will read the poems and verses I shall write about you in all the newspapers and magazines, and you will say as you take kings' and emperors' diamonds out of your hair: 'Who is this fellow? Ah yes! I remember him! He was a chum of mine down in the little village of St. Rest. I called him Mooncalf, and he called me Goblin. And—he was very fond of me!'"

She laughed a little, and drew away her hand from his.

"Don't talk nonsense!" she said—"Think of Maryllia—and of Mr. Walden!"

"I do think of them,—I think of them all the time!" declared Julian earnestly—"And that is why I am so uneasy. For—if the worst should happen, it will break Walden's heart."

Cicely's eyes filled with tears. She hurried away from him without another word or glance.

The fateful morning dawned. Walden had parted from Maryllia the previous night, promising himself that he would see her again before she passed into the surgeon's hands,—but Forsyth would not permit this.

"She does not wish it, John,"—he said—"And she has asked me to tell you so. Stay away from the Manor—keep quiet in your own house, if you feel unable to perform your usual round of work. It will be best for her and for you. I will let you know directly the operation is over. Santori is already here. Now"—and he gave Walden's hand a close and friendly grip—"steady, John! Say your prayers if you like,—we want all the help God can give us!"

The door opened and closed again—he was gone. A great silence,—a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Walden's heart. He sank into his accustomed chair and stared before him with unseeing eyes,- -mechanically patting his dog Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts to clamber on his knee.

"My God, my God!" he muttered—"What shall I do without her?"

Someone opened the door again just then. He started, thinking that Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him something he had forgotten. But the tall attenuated form that confronted him was not that of Forsyth. A look of amazed recognition, almost of awe, flashed into his eyes.

"Brent!" he cried,—and he caught at the pale hands extended to him,—hands like those of a saint whose flesh is worn by fasting and prayer;—then, with something of a sob, exclaimed again—"Harry! How—why did you come?"

Brent's eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tenderness in their dark and melancholy depths.

"I have come,"—he said,—and his musical voice, grave and sweet, trembled with deep feeling—"because I think this is your dark hour, John!—and because—-perhaps—-you may need me!"

And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly fell on his knees.

"Help me!" he cried, appealingly, with the tears struggling in his throat—"You are right—I need you! Help me to be strong—you are nearer God than I am! Pray for me!"

Gently the Bishop withdrew his hands from the fevered clasp that held them, and laid them tenderly on the bowed head. His lips moved, but he uttered no words. There was a solemn pause, broken only by the slow ticking of the clock in the outer hall.

Presently, rising in obedience to his friend's persuasive touch, Walden stood awhile with face turned away, trying to master himself, yet trembling in every nerve, despite his efforts.

"Brent,"—he began, huskily—"I am ashamed that you should see me like this—-so weak—-"

"A weakness that will make you stronger by and by, John!" and the Bishop linked a friendly arm within his own—"Come into the church with me, will you? I feel the influence of your enshrined Saint upon me! Let us wait for news, good or bad, at the altar,—and while waiting, we will pray. Do you remember what I said to you when you came to see me last summer? 'Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, we will see what your Saint can do for us'? Come!"

Without a word of demur, John obeyed. They passed out of the house together and took the private by-path to the church. It was then about noon, and the sun shone through a soft mist that threatened rain without permitting it to fall. The faint piping of a thrush in the near distance suggested the music of the coming Spring, and the delicate odour of plant-life pushing its way through the earth gave a pungent freshness to the quiet air. Arriving at the beautiful little sanctuary, they entered it by the vestry, though the public door stood open according to invariable custom. A singularly brilliant glare of luminance reflected from the plain clear glass that filled the apertures of the rose-window above the altar, struck aslant on the old-world sarcophagus which doubtless contained the remains of one who, all 'miraculous' attributes apart, had nobly lived and bravely died,—and as the Bishop moved reverently round it to the front of the altar-rails, his eyes were uplifted and full of spiritual rapture.

"Kneel here with me, John!" he said—"And with all our hearts and all our minds, let us pray to God for the life of the beloved woman whom God has given you,—given, surely, not to take away again, but to be more completely made your own! Let us pray, as the faithful servants of Christ prayed in the early days of the Church,—not hesitatingly, not doubtingly, not fearingly!—but believing and making sure that our prayers will, if good for us, be granted!"

They knelt together. Walden, folding his arms on the altar-rails, hid his face,—but the Bishop, clasping his hands and fixing his eyes on the word 'Resurget' that flashed out of the worn alabaster— wherein the unknown 'Saint' reposed, seemed to gather to himself all the sunlight that poured through the window above him, and to exhale from his own slight worn frame something like the mystic halo of glory pictured round the figure of an apostle or evangelist.

The minutes slowly ebbed away. The church clock chimed the half-hour after noon—and they remained absorbed in a trance of speechless, passionate prayer. They were unaware that some of Walden's parishioners, moved by the same idea of praying for Maryllia while she was undergoing the operation which was to save or slay, had come to the church also for that purpose, but were brought to a pause on the threshold of the building by the sight they saw within. That their own beloved 'Passon' should be kneeling at the altar in the agony of his own heart's Gethsemane was too much for their simple and affectionate souls,—and they withdrew in haste and silence, many of them with tears in their eyes. They were considerably awed too by the discovery that no less a personage than the Bishop of the diocese himself was companioning Walden in his trouble,—and, moving away in little groups of twos and threes, they stood about here and there in the churchyard, waiting for they knew not what, and all affected by the same thrill of mingled suspense, hope and fear. Among them was Bainton, who, when he had peered into the white silence of the church and had seen for himself that it was indeed his master who was praying there beside his Bishop, made no pretence to hide his emotion.

"We be all fools together,"—he said to Adam Frost in hoarse accents, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand—"We ain't no stronger nor wiser than a lot o' chitterin' sparrows on a housetop! Old Josey, he be too weak an' ailin' to get out in this kind o' weather, but he sez he's prayin' 'ard, which I truly believe he is, though he ain't in church. All the village is on its knees this marnin' I reckon, whether it's workin' in fields or gardens, or barns or orchards, an' if the Lord A'mighty don't take no notice of us, He must be powerful 'ard of 'earin'!"

Adam Frost coughed warningly,—jerked his thumb in the direction of the church, and was silent.

Suddenly a lark sang. Rising from the thick moss and jgrass which quilted over the grave of 'th' owld Squire,' Maryllia's father, the bird soared hoveringly aloft into the sun-warmed February air,—and by one common impulse the villagers looked up, watching the quivering of its wings.

"Bless us! That's the first skylark of the year!" said Mrs. Frost, who, holding her blue-eyed 'Baby Hippolyta,' otherwise Ipsie, by the hand, stood near the church porch—"Ain't it singin' sweet?"

"Fine!" murmured one or two of her gossips near her,—"Seems a good sign o' smilin' weather!"

There was a silence then among the merely human company, while the bird of heaven sang on more and more exultingly, and soared higher and higher into the misty grey-blue of the sky.

All at once the clock struck with a sharp clang 'one.' Inside the church, its deep reverbation startled the watchers from their prayers with an abrupt shock—and Walden lifted his head from his folded arms, showing in the bright shaft of strong sunshine that now bathed him in its radiance, his sad eyes, heavy and swollen with restrained tears. Suddenly there was a murmur of voices outside,—a smothered cry,—and then a little flying figure, breathless, hatless, with wild sparkling eyes and dark hair streaming loose in the wind, rushed into the church. It was Cicely. "It's all over!" she cried.

Walden sprang up, sick and dizzy. Bishop Brent rose from his knees slowly, his delicate right hand clutching nervously at the altar rail. Like men in a dream, they heard and gazed, stricken by a mutual horror too paralysing for speech.

"All over!"—muttered John, feebly—"My God!—my God! All over!"

Cicely sprang to him and caught his arm.

"Yes!—Don't you understand?" and her voice shook with excitement— "All over! She is safe!—quite safe!—she will be well!—Mr. Walden!—John!—don't look at me like that! oh dear!" and she turned a piteous glance on Bishop Brent who was, to her, a complete stranger—"He doesn't seem to hear me—please speak to him!—do make him understand! Everything has been done successfully—and Maryllia will live—she will be her own dear bright self again! As soon as I heard the good news, I raced down here to tell you and everybody!— oh John!—poor John!"

For, with a great sigh and a sudden stretching upward of his arms as though he sought to reach all Heaven with his soul's full measure of gratitude, John staggered blindly a few steps from the altar of the Saint's Rest and fell,—senseless.

* * * * * * * *

Again the merry month of May came in rejoicing. Again the May-pole glorious with blossoms and ribbons, made its nodding royal progress through the village of St. Rest, escorted by well-nigh a hundred children, who, with laughter and song carried it triumphantly up to Abbot's Manor, and danced round it in a ring on the broad grassy terrace facing the open windows of Maryllia's favourite morning room, where Maryllia herself, sweet and fair as a very queen of spring, stood watching them, with John Walden at her side. Again their fresh young voices, gay with the musical hilarity of happiness, carolled the Mayer's song:—

"We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day; And now returning back again, We bring you in the May!

A branch of May we have brought you, And at your door it stands, 'Tis but a sprout, But 'tis budded out, By the work of our Lord's hands.

The heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain; And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again!"

"That's true!" said John, slipping an arm round his beloved, and whispering his words in the little delicate ear half-hidden by the clustering gold-brown curls above it—"If a man be not too far gone as a bachelor, he may perhaps 'return again' as a tolerable husband? What do you think, my Maryllia?"

Her eyes sparkled with all their own mirth and mischief.

"I couldn't possibly say—yet!" she said—"You are quite perfect as an engaged man,—I never heard of anybody quite so attentive—so— well!—so nicely behaved!" and she laughed, "But how you will turn out when you are married, I shouldn't like to prophesy!"

"If the children weren't looking at us, I should kiss you," he observed, with a suggestive glance at her smiling lips.

"I'm sure you would!" she rejoined—"For an 'old' bachelor, John, you are quite an adept at that kind of thing!"

Here the little village dancers slackened the speed of their tripping measure and moved slowly round and round, allowing the garlands and ribbons to drop from their hands one by one against the May-pole, as they sang in softer tones—

"The moon shines bright, and the stars give light, A little before it is day, So God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a merrie May!"

Ceasing at this, they all gathered in one group and burst out into an ecstatic roar.

"Hurra! Three cheers for Passon!"

"Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!"

"Three cheers for Miss Vancourt!"

"Hurra!" But here there was a pause. Some one was obstructing the wave of enthusiasm. Signs of mixed scuffling were apparent,—when all suddenly the bold voice of Bob Keeley cried out:

"Not a bit of it! Three cheers for Missis Passon!"

Shouts of laughter followed this irreverent proposal, together with much whooping and cheering as never was. Ipsie Frost, who of course was present, no village revel being considered complete without her, was dancing recklessly all by herself on the grass, chirping in her baby voice a ballad of her own contriving which ran thus: