At the beginning of this month I had a great treat. Lorna came to stay with me for three days. She was visiting a friend twenty miles off, and came here in the middle of her visit just for that short time, so that there need be no necessity for Wallace to know anything about it. Of course, she came with her parents' consent and approval, and oh, how thankful I was to see her and to look upon her coming as a sign that they were beginning to forgive me. Of course we talked shoals about Wallace, for I just longed to know how he was faring.

"My dear, it was awful after you left—positively awful!" Lorna said. "Wallace went about looking like a ghost, and mother cried, and father was worried to death. Wallace declared at first that he would go abroad, but father told him that it was cowardly to throw up his work for the sake of a disappointment, however bitter, and mother asked if he really cared so little for his parents that he could forsake them in their old age for the sake of a girl whom he had only known a month. He gave way at last, as I knew he would, and set to work harder than ever. He was very brave, poor old boy, and never broke down nor made any fuss, but he was so silent! You would not have known him. He never seemed to laugh, nor to joke, nor take any interest in what was going on, and the whole winter long he never once entered my little den, where we had had such happy times. I suppose it reminded him too much of you. This spring, however, he has been brighter. I insisted on his taking me to the tennis club as usual, and though he went at first for my sake he enjoys it now for his own. We meet so many friends, and he can't help being happy out in the sunshine with a lot of happy boys and girls all round. He was quite keen about the tournament, and had such a pretty partner. He always walked home with her after the matches."

"How nice!" I said, and tried to be pleased and relieved, and succeeded only in feeling irritated and rubbed the wrong way. How mean it sounds! How selfish, and small, and contemptible! I just intend to make myself feel glad, and to hope that Wallace may see more and more of that pretty girl, and like her far better than me, and be right down thankful that I refused him. So now, Una Sackville, you know what is expected of you!

Vere liked Lorna, and was amused to see us frisking about together. The afternoon before Lorna left we were chasing each other round the room in some mad freak when, turning towards Vere's couch, I thought I saw her head raised an inch or so from the pillow in her effort to follow our movements. My heart gave a great thud of excitement, but I couldn't be sure, so I took no notice, but took care to retire still further into the corner. Then I looked round again, and, yes! it was perfectly true, her head was a good three inches from the couch, and she was smiling all the time, evidently quite free from pain.

"Oh, Vere!" I cried; "oh, darling, darling Vere!" and suddenly the tears rolled down my cheeks, and I trembled so that I could hardly stand. Lorna could not think what had happened, neither could Vere herself, and I tried hard to calm myself so as not to excite her too much.

"You raised your head, Vere! Oh, ever so high you raised it! You were watching us, and forgot all about yourself, and it didn't hurt you a bit—you smiled all the time. Try again if you don't believe me—try, darling. You can do it, if you like!"

Her breath came short with nervousness and agitation, but she clenched her hands and with a sudden effort her head and neck lifted themselves one, two, a good three or four inches from their support. Oh, her face! The sight of it at that moment was almost enough to make up for those long months of anxiety. It was illuminated; it shone! All the weary lines and hollows disappeared, the colour rushed to her cheeks; it was the old, lovely, radiant Vere, whom we had thought never to see again.

I can't describe what we did next. Mother came in and cried, father came in and clapped his hands, and asked mother what on earth she meant by crying, while the tears were rolling down his own dear old nose in the most barefaced manner all the time. I danced about the house and kissed everyone I met, and the servants cried and laughed, and the old family doctor was sent for and came in beaming and rubbing his hands with delight. He said it was a wonderful improvement, and the best possible augury of complete recovery, and that now the first step had been taken we could look forward to continuous improvement.

Oh, how happy we were! I don't think any of us slept much that night; we just lay awake and thanked God, and gloated over the glad news. All the next day Vere's face shone with the same wonderful incredulous joy. Hope had been very nearly dead for the last few months, and the sudden change from despair to practical certainty was too great to realise. It seemed as if she did not know how to be thankful enough. She said to me once—

"I am going to get well, Babs, but I must never forget this experience! As long as I live I shall keep this couch in my bedroom, and when I have been selfish and worldly I shall lay down straight on my back as I have done all these months and stay there for an hour or two, just to make myself remember how much I have been spared, and how humble I ought to be. And if you ever see me forgetting and going back to the old thoughtless ways, you must remind me, Babs; you must speak straight out and stop me in time. I want to look back on this illness and feel that it has been the turning-point in my life."

Later on the same day she said suddenly—

"I want Jim! Please send for Jim." And when he came, rushing on the wings of the express next day, she was so sweet and kind to him that the poor fellow did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels.

It was characteristic of Jim that when recovery seemed certain he should say no more about his own hopes. He had been anxious enough to offer his love in the dark days of uncertainty, and all the year long a day had never passed without bringing Vere some sign of his remembrance—a letter, or a book, or a magazine, or flowers, or scent, or chocolates. The second post never once came in without bringing a message of love and cheer. He came down to see us, too, once a month at least, and sometimes got very little thanks for his pains, but that made no difference to his devotion. Now for the first time he was silent and said not one word of love.

Vere told me all about it afterwards, not the nice private little bits, of course, but a general outline of the scene between them, and I could imagine how pretty it must have been. Vere is bewitching when she is saucy, and it is, oh, so good to see her saucy again!

"There sat Jim like a monument of propriety," she said, dimpling with amusement at the remembrance, "and do what I would I could not get him on to personal topics. I gave him half a dozen leads, but the wretch always drifted on to the weather, or politics, or books, and I could not corner him. Then at last I said mournfully, 'Haven't you brought me a cadeau, Jim? I looked forward to a cadeau. Is there nothing you want to give me?' He apologised profusely, said there had been no time before catching the train, but if there was anything at all that I fancied when he went back to town he would be only too charmed. I looked down and twiddled my fingers, and said bashfully, 'Well, Jim, I should like—a ring—!'"

Dear old Jim! Dear old loyal, faithful Jim! How I should have loved to see his face at that moment!



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

September 5th. Every day Vere seems to improve. It is simply wonderful how she has bounded ahead after the first start. Hope and happiness have a great deal to do with it, the doctor says, and the expectation of being better, which has taken the place of the old despair. She looks deliciously happy, and satisfied, and at rest, while as for Jim—he is ten years younger at the very least, and can hardly believe that his good fortune is true, and not a dream.

Needless to say he bought the ring at once—such a beauty! A great big pearl surrounded with diamonds. I mean to have the twin of it when I am engaged myself. Vere wears it hung on a chain round her neck for the present, but as soon as she can walk it is to go on her finger, and the engagement will be announced. She has been propped up on her couch higher and higher every day, and yesterday she actually sat on a chair for half an hour, and felt none the worse.

We are all so happy that we don't know what to do—at least, I am miserable enough sometimes when I am alone, and begin thinking of myself. When Vere marries and goes away I shall be horribly dull, and when Rachel marries I wonder where they will live—the Dudleys, I mean! The Dudleys! Will is heir to an old bachelor uncle who has a place in the North. That's the reason why he is learning to be an agent here, so that he may know how to manage his own land when he gets it. I think, on the whole, I would rather he and Rachel went quite away, but how flat and uninteresting everything would be! I shall have to go about with father more than ever, but we shall never meet Will striding about in his tweed suit and deerstalker cap; he will never join us any more and have nice long talks. Oh, dear! Why do people want to marry other people in this world? Why can't they all go on as they are, being friends and having a good time together? Captain Grantly married Lady Mary at Easter, and I suppose Wallace will marry the pretty girl next, and Lorna will write to say she is engaged, and can't be bothered with me any more.

I shall never marry. I could never induce myself to accept a second- best as Vere has done. That sounds horrid, and, of course, she declares now that she never cared for another man, but I know better! She was in love with Will at one time, but she knew it was hopeless, and Jim's devotion during all those weary months was enough to melt a heart of stone.

Vere wished Rachel to be told of her engagement at once, and despatched me to the Grange to carry the news, and, as Will Dudley happened to be there at the time, he was really obliged to walk home with me, so far, at least, as our paths lay together. It was the first time we had been really alone for an age, and we were both rather silent for the first part of the walk. Then we began talking of the engagement, and got on better. Will had been a little uncertain in his congratulations, and he explained why.

"Carstairs is a splendid fellow. I admire him immensely, and there is no doubt about his feelings. He has adored your sister for years, but— she never appeared to me to appreciate his devotion!"

I smiled to myself, recalling Vere's rhapsodies of an hour ago.

"By her own account she has never thought of anyone else, nor cared for anyone else, nor wished for anyone else, but has adored him all the time she was snubbing him and flirting with other men. Curious, isn't it? The funny part of it is she really and truly believes that it is true."

"For the moment—yes. I can understand that. She is altogether in a highly nervous, exalted condition, and feels that the first act of convalescence ought to be to reward his long waiting. My only fear is that when she gets back to a normal condition she may realise that what she feels is more gratitude and affection than love."

"I don't think so, and you wouldn't either if you saw them together. I detest lovers as a rule, they are so dull and self-engrossed; but it is pretty to watch Vere and Jim. She is so saucy and domineering, and he is so blissfully happy to be bullied. Oh, yes, I am sure it is all right! I am sure they will be happy."

"God grant it!" he said solemnly. "Everything depends upon the truth of their feelings for each other. If that is right, nothing else will have power to hurt them seriously. If it is not—" He broke off, looking so serious that I felt frightened, and said nervously:

"But, surely—even at the worst, gratitude and affection would be a good foundation!"

"For everything else, but not for marriage. It is a ghastly mistake to imagine that they can ever take the place of love. Never fall into that error, Babs, however much you may be tempted. Never let any impulse of gratitude or pity induce you to promise to marry a man if you have no warmer feeling. It would be the most cruel thing you could do, not only for yourself, but for him!"

"I have fallen into it once already, but he would not have me," I said, recalling my hasty speech to Wallace Forbes, and at that Will's face lit up with sudden animation, and he cried eagerly:

"Was that the explanation? I guessed, of course, that something had happened while you were away last autumn. You remember I was calling on your sister at the time of your unexpected return, and you have never been quite the same since? Whatever happened then has changed you from a girl into a woman."

I sighed, as I always did when I recalled that miserable incident.

"I am glad you think so. I want to be changed. Please don't think me the heroine of an interesting romance. I was a selfish wretch, and amused myself by flirting without thinking of anything but my own amusement. I was very down on my luck just then, and had got it into my head that no one cared for me, and when—he—did, it cheered and soothed my feelings, so I let things drift until it was too late. Do you despise me altogether, or can you understand that, bad as it was, it wasn't so hopelessly bad as it sounds?"

"I understand better than you think, perhaps. And you repented in sackcloth and ashes, and were ready to make a sacrifice of yourself by way of reparation? Thank heaven he was man enough to refuse that offer! Whatever happens to the rest of us, you, at least, must be happy. You were meant for happiness, and must not throw it aside. I shall probably leave this place soon, and we may seldom meet in the future, but I should like to think of you in the sunshine. Promise me to be happy, Babs! Promise me that you will be happy!"

He turned towards me with a violence of voice and manner so unlike his usual composed, half-quizzical manner, that I was quite aghast, and did not know how to reply. For the first time a doubt of his own happiness sprang into my mind, and once there it seemed to grow bigger and bigger with every moment that passed. He did not speak like a happy man; he did not look like a man whose heart was at rest. Looking at him closely, I saw a network of lines about his mouth, which I had never noticed before; his eyes looked tired and sunken. He has changed since I saw him first a year ago, and yet there seems nothing to account for it, for his circumstances are all the same. Is he depressed because Rachel still puts off their marriage? Oh, if I were in her place I could not endure to see him looking ill and sad, and still leave him alone! Nothing should keep me away! I'd jump over the moon to get to his side!

We stood still in the middle of the quiet path and stared at each other. I don't know what he was thinking, but my own thoughts made me blush and change the subject hurriedly.

"Oh, I mean to be happy! I have had so much anxiety and trouble this last year that I'm just bubbling over with pent-up spirits. This engagement has put the finishing touch to my self-control, and I must do something at once to let off steam. Did you hear me ask Rachel to go over to Farnham with us to-morrow? Father and mother and I are going to do it in record time in the new motor, and Rachel is coming, too. She has never been in a motor, and is eager to see what it is like. It's quite a triumph to get her to accept an invitation, isn't it? You can come, too, if you like; there's room for another, and the more the merrier. Do come, and let us all be happy together! We could have such a merry day!"

He hesitated for a moment, then laughed in a sort of reckless way, and cried loudly:

"Yes, let us be happy! It is only for one day. Let us throw care to the winds, and think of nothing but our own enjoyment. Oh, yes, I'll come! We will have a happy day, Babs—a happy day together!"

So now it is all arranged, and I am longing for the time to come. We three will sit together on the back seat and talk all the time, and, as Will says, I shall just forget everything in the world I don't care to remember, and enjoy every minute of the time.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

September 6th, 11 PM. Here I am back in my own room; at least, I suppose it is me. I have been staring at myself in the glass, and I look much the same. No one who didn't know would guess what had happened to me during the last few hours, and that to myself I feel all new and strange—a Una Sackville who was never really alive until to-day.

I ought to be desperately miserable, and I am, but I am happy, too; half the time I am so happy that I forget all about the past and the future, and remember only the present. To-morrow morning, I suppose, I shall begin worrying and fighting against fate, but for to-night I am content—so utterly, perfectly content that there is no room to want anything more. I'll begin at the beginning, and tell it straight through to the end.

We started off for our ride at twelve o'clock this morning in the highest of spirits, for the sun was shining, the sky was a deep cloudless blue, and, better than all, Vere had taken her first walk across the floor, supported by father on one side, and Jim on the other, and had managed far better than any of us had expected. She and Jim had arranged to have lunch together in the garden, and she waved her hand to us at parting, and cried airily:

"Perhaps I may stroll down to the Lodge to meet you on your return!"

Father and mother looked at one another when they were outside the door, so happy, poor dears, that they hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry, and then out we went into the sunshine, where the motor was throbbing and bumping as if it were impatient to be off. When I invent a motor I'll make one that can be quiet when it stands. I'm not a bit nervous when once we are started, but I hate it while we are waiting, and the stupid thing behaves as if it were going to blow up every moment.

Rachel was waiting for us, and flushed to the loveliest pink when Will appeared and she discovered that he was to be one of the party. Father, mother and the chauffeur sat on the front seat, Rachel and I on the one behind, with Will in the middle, and the luncheon-baskets were packed away behind. I had a mad turn, and was quite "fey," as the Scotch say. I kept them laughing the whole time, and was quite surprised at my own wit. It seemed as if someone else was talking through my lips, for I said the things almost before I thought of them.

We rushed along through beautiful country lanes, through dear, sleepy little villages, and along the banks of the river. The motor behaved beautifully, and neither smelt nor shook; it was quite intoxicating to fly through the air without any feeling of exertion, and Rachel herself grew almost frisky in time.

At two o'clock we camped out, and had a delicious luncheon; then off we started again, to take a further circuit of the country, and have tea at a quaint old inn on the way home. All went well until about four o'clock, when we began to descend a long, steep hill leading to a riverside village. Father told the chauffeur to take it as slowly as possible, but we had not covered a quarter of the way when—something happened! Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the machine seemed to leap forward like an arrow from a bow, and rush down the hill, more and more quickly with every second that passed. We all called out in alarm, and the chauffeur turned a bleached face to father, and said shakily:

"It's gone, sir! The brake has gone. I can't hold her!"

"Gone? Broken? Are you sure—perfectly sure?"

"Quite sure, sir. What shall I do? Run through the village and chance the river, or turn up the bank?"

We knew the village—one long, narrow street crowded with excursionists, with vehicles of all descriptions, with little children playing about. At the end the road gave a sharp turn close to the water's edge. On the other hand the bank was high and steep, and in some places covered with flints.

Father looked round, and his face whitened, but he said firmly:

"We will not risk other lives besides our own. If that is the choice, run her up the bank, Johnson!"

"Right, sir!" said the chauffeur.

It all happened in a moment, but it seemed like hours and hours. The machine shook and quivered, and turned unwillingly to the side. The bank seemed to rush at us—to grow steeper and steeper; to tower above our heads like a mountain. My heart seemed to stop beating; a far-away voice said clearly in my brain, "This is death!" and a great wave of despair rolled over me. I turned instinctively towards Will, and at the same moment he turned towards me, and his eyes were bright and shining.

"Una, Una!" he cried, and his arms opened wide and clasped me in a tight, protecting embrace. There was a crash and a roar, a feeling of mounting upwards to the skies, and then—darkness!

————————————————————————————————————

The next thing was waking up feeling heavy and dazed, staring stupidly at my coat-sleeve, and wondering what it was, and how I came to be wearing such an extraordinary night-gown. Then I tried to move the arm, and it was heavy and painful; and suddenly I remembered! I was not dead at all, not even, it appeared, seriously hurt. But the others? I sat up and glanced fearfully around. The motor lay half-way up the bank, a shattered mass. Father was on his knees beside mother, who was moaning in a low, unconscious fashion. Will was slowly scrambling to his feet, holding one hand to his back. Rachel lay white and still as death, but her eyes were open, and she was evidently fully conscious. The chauffeur was dreadful to look at, with the blood pouring from his head, but he, too, moaned, and moved his limbs. Nobody was dead! It was almost too wonderful to be believed. I dragged myself across to mother, and she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at the sight of our anxious faces. Her dear hands were terribly cut; she winced with pain as she sat up, and was evidently badly bruised, but it was such bliss to see her move and hear her speak that these seemed but light things. Father rushed to the motor, managed to extricate a flask from the scattered contents, and went round administering doses of brandy to us all in turns. He had ricked his knee, and hobbled about like an old man. Will had a bad pain in his back, and a cut on his forehead. My left arm was useless. Rachel seemed utterly stunned, and unable to speak or move, and the poor chauffeur was unconscious, having fallen on his head on a mass of flints.

By this time the accident had become known, and the village people came trooping up the hill, bringing stretchers with them, for, as they afterwards explained, they expected to find us all dead. The chauffeur and Rachel were carried in front, but the rest of us preferred to hobble along on our own feet, mother leaning on father's arm, Will and I, one on each side, never once glancing in the other's face. It was awful to be alive, and to remember that last moment when we had forgotten everything in the world but our two selves. I felt like a murderess when I looked at Rachel's still face, and hated myself for what I had done. Yet how could I help it? When you face death at the distance of a few seconds, all pretence dies away, and you act unconsciously as the heart dictates. I wanted Will—and—Will wanted me! Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to think of! All these months when he has avoided me, and I thought he liked me less, has he really been loving me, and trying to get over it in loyalty to poor, dear Rachel? And was that what it meant when he called me "Una!" and his voice lingered over the word?

Looking back now, I can understand lots of things which puzzled and worried me at the time. I think he began to love me almost at the very first, as I did him. But oh, Rachel, Rachel—dear, sweet, unselfish Rachel! I'd rather die than steal your happiness from you! Did she hear, I wonder? Did she see? Father and mother were too much engrossed in themselves to know anything about it—perhaps she, too, was too excited to notice. Yet, surely in that awful moment she would turn to Will for comfort, and when she saw him absorbed in me, forgetting her very existence, she must understand. Oh, she must!

I was terrified to meet her eyes when at last we reached the parlour of the inn, and the doctor came to attend to us all in turns. She was lying on the sofa, and when I made myself go over to speak to her, my heart gave a great throb of thankfulness, for she smiled at me, very feebly, but as sweetly as ever, and pressed my hand between hers. She shook her head when I asked her a question, and seemed as if she could not bear to talk. The doctor was puzzled by her condition; he could find no real injuries, but said she was evidently suffering from shock, and must be kept as quiet as possible until she recovered her nerve. We were sponged, bandaged, plastered, and fortified with tea, and a wretched livid-looking party we were! No one could possibly have recognised us as the same people who had set out so gaily four hours before.

The doctor was anxious that we should telegraph home, and spend the night at the inn, but we had two more invalids to consider—Mrs Greaves and Vere, neither of whom were fit to be left alone in suspense, so we chartered a big covered omnibus, borrowed dozens of pillows and cushions, and set out to drive the remaining ten miles, leaving the chauffeur to be taken to the village hospital. Mother, Rachel and I lay full length along the seats, the two men banked themselves up with pillows, and endured the shaking as best they could, and so at last we reached our separate homes. I have been sitting here by my desk thinking, thinking, thinking for over an hour, and it all comes to the same thing.

I have made one man unhappy through my selfish vanity; I will not ruin a woman's life into the bargain. Rachel is my friend, and I will be truly and utterly loyal to her. So far my conscience is clear of offence where she is concerned, for if I have loved Will it has been unconsciously, and without realising what I was doing. I have never, never tried to attract him nor take him from her in any way. I have looked upon him as much out of my reach as if he had been a married man, but after this things will be different. I know the danger that is before us both, and shall have to watch myself sternly every minute of the time.

I suppose I shall be an old maid now, for I can't imagine caring for anyone after Will. Father and mother will be glad, and I'll try to be a comfort to them, but it will be dreadful getting old, and ugly, and tired and ill, and never having a real home of my own, and someone to like me best. Preachey people would say that it is wrong of me to want to be first, and that I should be quite content to take a lower place, but I can't think that can be true where love is concerned, else why did God put this longing in women's hearts? Anyway, I've found out that love—the best kind of love—is His gift, and if it comes to me at all it shall be as His gift. I won't steal it! Poor, darling, unselfish Rachel, for your sake I must guard my thoughts as well as my deeds.

I think perhaps I'd better not write any more in this diary for a time. It would be difficult to write of just ordinary things without referring to the one great subject, and that is just what I must not do. My business is to forget, not to remember. I must not allow myself to think!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

January 1st. I must begin to write again in my poor, neglected diary, for things are happening so fast that if I do not keep a record of them as they pass I shall forget half that I want to remember.

The last entry was written on the evening after the motor accident, nearly four months ago, so I must go back to that day and tell what happened in the interval.

We were all invalided more or less for a few weeks, but providentially there were no serious developments; even the poor chauffeur recovered and seemed as well as ever. Rachel was the longest in gaining strength, and the doctor was worried about her, for she seemed listless and uninterested in what was going on, so different from her usual happy self. He said she had evidently had a severe nervous shock, and that that sort of thing was often more difficult to overcome than more tangible injuries. A nurse came down from London to look after her and her mother, and finally they went off to Bournemouth, where they intend to remain until the worst of the winter is over.

I was relieved to feel convinced that Rachel knew nothing of what had occurred at that last dreadful moment, for her ignorance seemed proved by the fact that she was absolutely the same in manner both to Will and myself! in fact, if anything, I think she was more affectionate to me than she had ever been before. I was thankful! It would have been dreadful to feel that we had any part in bringing about her illness. As for Will, I kept carefully out of his way, and hoped we need never, never refer to what had passed; but he evidently felt differently, and one day when he knew where I was bound he deliberately waylaid me and had it out. I never lifted my eyes from the ground, so I don't know how he looked, but his voice told plainly enough how agitated he was feeling.

"There is something I have to say, and the sooner it is said the better for both of us," he began. "I owe you an explanation for what occurred—that day. I should like you to understand that I hardly knew what I was about. It seemed as if it might be the last moment of life, and I turned instinctively to you. Otherwise I would never, never—"

"Oh, I know!" I cried brokenly. "I understand it all, and if there is any blame it is mine as much as yours, for I forgot, too. We must never refer to it again, and we had better see each other as seldom as possible. It will be easier that way."

He was silent for a moment or two, then he sighed heavily and said:

"It will not be easy any way, Una, but it must be done. I can't blame myself altogether for what has happened. Our hearts are not always in our own keeping, and mine went out to you from the first. I did not realise it for a time, but when I did, I did not trifle with temptation. I kept out of your way, as you must have noticed. All last winter I fought a hard fight. It would have been harder still if I had guessed that—you cared! The trouble began in mistaking friendship for love, but until I met you I was quite content. I had no idea that anything was lacking."

"And you will be happy again. Rachel is better than I am in every possible way, and is more worthy of you. I am a selfish, discontented wretch. If you knew what I was really like, you would wonder how you could ever have cared for me at all, and when you leave this place it will be easy to forget—"

"I shall never forget," he said shortly. "Una, I must tell you all that is in my mind. I believe in honesty in love as in all other matters, and if circumstances were different I should go straight to Rachel and tell her. How, unconsciously to myself, my heart had gone out to you, and that in that supreme moment we turned instinctively to each other, and I knew that my love was returned, and I would ask her for my liberty. In nine out of ten cases I am sure that would be the right thing to do, but—this is the tenth! Rachel has had years of trouble and anxiety, and now her own health is broken. I could not put another burden upon her. Through these last days of misery and uncertainty what has comforted me most has been to realise that she has no idea of what happened. She must have been taken up with her own thoughts—praying, no doubt, for our safety, not her own. Rachel never thinks of herself, so I must think for her. With her father gone, her mother invalided, she has no one left but me, and I can't desert her."

"I should hate you if you did!" I cried eagerly. "I, too, have been thankful that she knows nothing, and she must never know, you must never let her guess. There could be no happiness for us if we broke her heart. You used to call her the best woman in the world, and she is so sweet and gentle that you could not possibly live with her and remain unhappy. In years to come you will be thankful it has happened like this."

"In any case it is the right thing to do," he said, sighing. "As you say, we should only suffer if we thought of ourselves first. If one tries to grasp happiness at the expense of another's suffering it only collapses like a bubble, and leaves one more wretched than before. You and I are not unprincipled, Una, though we did forget ourselves for that one moment, and the remembrance of Rachel would poison everything. Perhaps, after all, it is as well that we know our danger, for we shall be more careful to keep out of temptation. I shall try to persuade her to marry me as soon as possible, and after that we shall live near my uncle. I shall have a busy, active life, and, as you say, one of the sweetest women in the world for my wife. She has been faithful to me for so many years that I should be a scoundrel if I did not make her happy."

I did not say anything—I couldn't! I seemed to see it all stretched out before me—Will being married, and going to live far, far away, and settling down with his wife and children, and forgetting that there was a Una in the world. I tried to be glad at the thought; I tried hard, but I was just one big ache, and my heart felt as if it would burst. Honestly and truly, if by lifting up a little finger at that moment I could have hindered their happiness, nothing would have induced me to do it, but it is difficult to do right cheerfully.

We stood silently for a long time, until Will said brokenly: "And what will—you do, Una?"

"Oh, I shall do nothing. I shall stay at home—like the little pig," I said, trying to laugh, and succeeding very badly. "I shall help Vere with her marriage preparations, and visit her in her new home, and take care of the parents in their old age. Father says there ought always to be one unmarried woman in every family to play Aunt Mary in time of need. I shall be the Sackville Aunt Mary."

He turned and walked up and down the path. I stole a glance at him and saw that he was battling with some strong emotion, then our eyes met, and he came forward hastily and stood before me.

"Oh, it is hard that I should have brought this upon you! I who would give my right hand to ensure your happiness. Have I spoilt your life, Una? Will you think hardly of me some day, and wish that we had never met?"

Then at last I looked full in his face.

"No, Will," I said; "that day will never come. I have known a good man, and I am proud that he has loved me, and prouder still that he is true to his word. Don't worry about me. I shall try to be happy and brave, and make the most of my life. It will be easier after you have left. We must not meet like this again. I could not bear that."

"No, we must not meet. I could not bear it either, but I am glad that we have spoken out this once. God bless you, dear, for your sweet words. They will be a comfort to remember. Good-bye!"

We did not even shake hands; he just took off his cap and—went! I had a horrible impulse to run after him, take him by the arm, and make him stay a little longer, only five minutes longer, but I didn't. I just stood perfectly still and heard his footsteps crunch down the path. Then the sound died away, and it seemed as if everything else died with them. I did not feel brave at that moment. There seemed nothing left in the whole wide world that was worth having.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

About the middle of September Will went away to pay a visit to his uncle. He called to say good-bye when he knew I was out, so we did not meet again, and no one had any idea of what had happened. Isn't it strange how far away you feel at times from even your nearest relations?

"Not e'en the dearest heart and next our own, Knows half the reason why we smile or sigh!"

as it says in the "Christian Year." A girl's parents think: "She has a comfortable home, and nice food and clothes, and we are always thinking of her; she ought to be happy, and if she isn't she is a naughty, ungrateful child!" They don't remember that the child is a woman, and wants her very own life! And other people say: "She is a well-off girl, that Una Sackville, she has everything that money can buy!" but money can't take the ache out of your heart. And your sister thinks that you should be so excited and eager at the prospect of being her bridesmaid, that your cup of happiness ought to simply pour over on the spot. Ah, well, perhaps it's just as well to keep your troubles to yourself!

The old uncle was weak and failing, so Will stayed on with him until Christmas. I suppose he was glad of the excuse. He never wrote, but Rachel sent me a note now and then, and mentioned that he had been down to Bournemouth several times, but she is a poor correspondent at the best of times, and her letters seemed emptier than ever. When Lorna writes, you feel as if she were speaking, and she tells you all the nice, interesting little things you most want to hear, but Rachel's letters are just a dull repetition of your own.

"Dearest Una,—I am so glad to hear you are keeping well, and feeling happier about your sister's health. It is very nice to know that dear Mrs Sackville is so much stronger this winter, and that your father is full of health and vigour. So you are expecting a visit from your soldier brother, and are all greatly excited at the prospect of seeing him after so many years, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." What is one to do with people who write like that? Just at the end she would say, "Will paid us a flying visit last week, and promised to come again next Saturday. Believe me, dear Una..." Her letters left me as hungry and dissatisfied as when they arrived, but they brought all the news I had for three long months.

At home the atmosphere was very bright and cheery, for Vere improved so quickly that she and Jim actually began to talk of marriage in the summer. The old doctor came up and croaked warnings when he heard of it. He said that Vere would need care for a long time to come, and that in his opinion it would be wiser to wait until she was perfectly strong—say a matter of two or three years longer; but Jim just laughed in his face, and said he flattered himself that he could take better care of his wife than anyone else could possibly do. So it was settled, and the astounding marvel has come to pass that Vere is so engrossed in thinking about Jim and their future life together, that she is comparatively indifferent to clothes. When I sounded her as to bridesmaids' costume, she said: "Oh, settle it yourself, dear. I don't mind, so long as you are pleased!" Two years ago she would have insisted on my wearing saffron, if it had been the fashionable colour, and have worried the whole household into fits about the shape of the sleeves! She is so loving and sweet to mother, too, not only in words, but in a hundred taking-pains kind of ways, and she never jeers or hurts my feelings as she used to do. Jim is going to have a very nice wife, and he deserves it, dear old patient thing!

In November, just as it was all settled about the wedding, Spencer came home from Malta, and stayed for a month. We were all simply bursting with pride over him, and the whole neighbourhood came up in batches to do obeisance. Why one should be prouder of a soldier who has never even seen a fight than of a nice, hard-working clerk, I can't think, but the fact remains that you are, and I did wish it were the fashion for Spencer to wear his lovely uniform, instead of a dull grey tweed suit like anybody else! The whole family was busy and happy and engrossed in the present. Nobody guessed what years those weeks seemed to me. I was quite bright all day long, but when I got to bed...

So the time went on, one day after another. Spencer went back to Malta, and Jim came down to stay for Christmas, also Lady Mary and her husband, and I sat up in my room making presents, and trying to live in the present and not look ahead. Then Christmas morning came, and among a stack of cards was a letter from Rachel—an extraordinary letter!

"I am quite well again," she wrote, "but mother is very frail, and takes cold at every change in the weather. Even this sheltered place seems too bleak for her, and we are seriously contemplating going abroad—not to the Continent, but a much longer journey—to South Africa itself! You may have heard that mother spent her early life at the Cape, and now that father has gone it is only natural that she should wish to spend her last years near her brothers and sisters. It will be a wrench for me to leave England, and all the dear friends who have been so kind to me, but I feel more and more strongly that it is the right thing to do. We shall try to sell the Grange, but shall, of course, come back for a few weeks after the New Year to pack up and make final arrangements, if, as I think probable, our plans are settled by that time."

The letter went on to discuss other subjects, but I could not bring my mind to attend to them. I just sat staring at that one paragraph, and reading it over again and again and again.

Going to the Cape! To spend her mother's last days! Mrs Greaves was not an old woman. She might easily live for another ten or fifteen years. Did Rachel seriously mean to imply that she herself was going to remain in South Africa all that time? And what about Will? Was he supposed to wait patiently until she returned, or to expatriate himself in order to join her? I felt utterly bewildered, and the worst of it was that there was no one near who could throw any light on the subject, or answer one of my questions. At one moment I felt indignant with Rachel for making no mention of Will's interest; at the next I marvelled how a mother, so kind and devoted as Mrs Greaves, could possibly demand such a sacrifice of her daughter. What would Will say when the project was unfolded to him? After his long waiting he would be quite justified in taking a strong position and refusing to be put aside any longer. From what I knew of him, I fancied that he would do so—I hoped he would. Nothing could be more trying and dangerous for him or for me than a long, dragging engagement, with Rachel at the other side of the world—an engagement which held him bound, yet left him practically free.

I knew that Will was to spend Christmas at Bournemouth, and wondered if he would call on us on his return to discuss the astonishing news, but though father met him once or twice, he never came near the house until this morning, this wonderful never-to-be-forgotten morning when Bennett came to me as I was writing in the library and said that Mr Dudley had called to see me, and was waiting in the drawing-room.

To see me! Not mother, nor father, nor Vere, but me! My heart gave a great leap of excitement, and I trembled so violently that I could hardly walk across the floor. It must be something extraordinary indeed which brought Will on a special mission to me!

He was standing by the fireplace as I entered the room, and the moment he saw me he darted forward and seized my hands in both his. The last time we had met he would not even shake hands at parting. I remembered that with another thrill of excitement; then he drew me towards the fireplace and began speaking in quick, excited tones—

"Una, it is all over! Rachel has set me free! It is her own doing, entirely her own wish. I had no idea of it until Christmas Eve, when she sent me a letter telling me that she was going to South Africa with her mother, and could not continue our engagement. She asked me not to come to Bournemouth as arranged, but I went all the same. I could not accept a written word after all these years. I wanted to satisfy myself that she was in earnest."

"And was she?"

"Absolutely! I could not touch her decision—sweet and gentle and kindly as ever, but perfectly determined to end it once for all."

"Do you think that Mrs Greaves—"

"No, she has had nothing to do with it. The decision was as great a surprise to her as to me. She told me that she would never have consented to the South African scheme if Rachel had not first confided in her that she wished to break her engagement, and would be glad to be out of England. I think she is genuinely sorry. She and I were always good friends."

"Then why—why—why—"

"A matter of feeling entirely. Stay, I will give you her letter to read. It will explain better than I can, and there is nothing that she could mind your seeing."

He took an envelope from his coat pocket, unfolded the sheet of paper which it contained, and held it before me. I was so shaky and trembling that I don't think I could have held it myself. It was dated December 23rd, and on the first page Rachel spoke of the proposed journey in almost the same words which she had used in her letter to me, written on the same date. Then came the surprise.

"You will wonder, dear Will, if I am altogether forgetting you and your claims in the making of these plans; indeed, I never can be indifferent to anything which concerns your happiness, but I have something to say to you to-night which cannot longer be delayed. I am going to ask you to set me free from our engagement. I have come to the conclusion that I have been mistaken in many things, and that it would not be a right thing for me to become your wife. Please don't imagine that I am disappointed in you, or have any sins to lay to your charge. I am thankful to say that my affection and esteem are greater now than on the day when we were engaged, and I should be deeply grieved if I thought there could ever be anything approaching a quarrel between us. I want to be good, true friends, dear Will, but only friends—not lovers. I see now that I should never have allowed anything else, but you must be generous, dear, and forgive me, as you have already forgiven so many failings.

"Don't try to dissuade me. You know I am not given to rash decisions, and I have thought over nothing else than this step for some weeks past. I know I am right, and in the future you will see it too, however strangely it strikes you now. It would perhaps be better if you did not come here to-morrow as arranged—"

The rest of the letter I knew already, so I did not trouble to look at it, but turned back and read the last paragraphs for the second time, "I have been mistaken in many things!" "My affection is greater than on the day when we were engaged." "I have thought over nothing else for some weeks past." Those three sentences seemed to stand out from the rest, and to print themselves on my brain. I looked anxiously in Will's face, and saw in it joy, agitation, a wonderful tenderness, but no shadow of the suspicion which was tearing at my own heart. How blind men are sometimes, especially when they don't care to see!

"She has never loved me!" he declared. "She had, as she says, an affection for me as she might have had for a friend, a brother—an affection such as I had for her, but she does not know—we neither of us knew the meaning of—love!"

I looked at the carpet, and there rose before me a vision of Rachel's face when Will appeared unexpectedly on the scene; when she heard the tones of his voice in the distance; when she watched him out of sight after he had said "Good-bye." In his actual presence she was quiet and precise, but at these moments her eyes would shine with a deep glow of happiness, her lips would tremble, and her cheeks turn suddenly from white to pink. Not love him—Rachel not love Will! Why, she adored him! He was more to her than anything and everybody in the world put together. She might be able to deceive him, but nothing could make me believe that she had broken off the engagement for her own happiness. She was thinking of someone else, not herself. Who was it? Ah, that was the question. Her mother, or Will, Will and perhaps—me! Was it possible that she had been conscious of what had happened on the afternoon of the motor accident, and that, in consideration of our feelings, she had kept her own counsel until a sufficient time had elapsed to enable her to end her engagement in a natural manner? Anyone who knew Rachel as I do would realise in a flash that it was just exactly what she would do in the circumstances. Then, if this were indeed the case, the nervous shock which prostrated her for so long was not physical, but mental. Oh, poor Rachel! Yet you could smile at me, and be sweet and gentle in the first moments of your agony! It was all I could do to keep back the tears, as I thought of what she must have endured during these last three months; but through all my agitation one determination remained unshaken: I must not let Will see my suspicions; Rachel's secret must be loyally guarded. He was talking incessantly—a quick, excited stream of words. I came back from my dreams to pick up a half-finished sentence—

"Too good to be true. She has filled so large a place in my life. I have such a strong admiration for her that it would have been a real pain to have parted coldly. But to keep her as my friend, to know that her affection is unchanged, and yet to be free to seek my own happiness is such a marvellous unravelling of the skein that I can hardly realise my good fortune. I came back last night, and could hardly wait until this morning to tell you my news. Una, you understand! I ask nothing of you to-day, it is not the time to speak of ourselves. I shall go back to my uncle, and stay with him for the next few months. He is very frail, and my place seems to be with him at present, but in the spring, if I come back in the spring, will you see me then? Will you let me tell you—"

I moved away from him hurriedly.

"No, no—don't say it! Say nothing to-day, but just 'Good-bye.' I don't want to think of the future—it's too soon. You said we must not think of ourselves."

"I did. You are quite right, but sometimes it is difficult to be consistent. You are not angry with me for coming to-day?"

He held out his hand as he spoke, and—I was inconsistent, too! I laid mine in it, and we stood with clasped fingers, quite still and silent for a long, long time, but I think we said many things to each other, all the same.

Then Will went away—my Will!—and I came upstairs to my room, and sat down all alone. No, that is not true—I can never fed alone now as long as I live!



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

January 20th. Mrs Greaves and Rachel came home after the New Year and set to work at once to break up the old home. All the furniture is to be sold by auction, and the house is to be sold too, or let upon a very long lease. I wanted to see Rachel, but dreaded seeing her, at the same time, so at last I sent a letter asking when I might come, and she wrote back a dear little affectionate note fixing the very next afternoon. When I arrived she took me upstairs to the sitting-room where I used to spend my days when my ankle was bad, and fussed over me in just the same old way. She looked—different! Just as sweet, just as calm, but—oh, I can't describe it, as if something had gone which had been the mainspring of it all.

I should never have dared to mention Will, but she began almost at once to speak of the broken engagement, quite calmly and quietly, repeating that it was the best thing for both, and that she should be perfectly content if she were satisfied about Will's future.

"Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to hear that Will is happily married and settled down. He has been too long alone, and would so thoroughly appreciate a home of his own. I have done him a great injustice by condemning him to so many lonely years, but our engagement need be no hindrance now. It was known to very few people, and,"—she smiled a little sadly—"even those who did know refused to take it seriously. They saw at once what I was so slow in discovering—that we were unsuited to each other. We were thrown together at a time when he was depressed and lonely, otherwise the engagement could never have happened. It was a great mistake, but it is over now, and he must not suffer from its consequences. I am going away, but I shall wait to hear of his happiness, and I hope it may come soon."

Our eyes met. I looked at her steadily, and the colour rose in her cheeks and spread up to the roots of her hair. She shrank back in her chair and put up her hands as if to ward me off, but I just sank on my knees before them and held them tightly in mine.

"Oh, Rachel!" I cried. "I know, I know! You can't deceive me, dear. You have done this for our sakes, not your own. Oh, I hoped you had been too much engrossed to notice what happened that day. When you said nothing about it, I was so relieved and thankful, for truly, Rachel, it was only an impulse. Nothing of the sort had ever happened before—not a word or a look to which you could have objected. You believe that, don't you, dear? Say you believe it."

Her fingers tightened round mine.

"Indeed, indeed, I do! You have been all that is true and loyal, and so has Will. There is no one to blame but myself. I knew from the first that he was attracted to you, and that you suited him better than I could ever do; but I shut my eyes—I did not want to see. Don't be sorry for what happened; it is a great blessing for us all that I was not allowed to deceive myself any longer. You say it was only an impulse. Ah, Una, but the impulse which made him turn to you and forget me is too clear a warning to be neglected. It showed how his heart lay better than any deliberate action."

I could not deny it. I did not want to deny it, deeply as I felt for her suffering. I laid my head in her lap, so that she should not see my face, and begged her to forgive me.

"I feel such a wretch to take my happiness at the expense of yours. You are an angel, Rachel, to be so sweet and forgiving. I should be a fury of rage and jealousy if I were in your place, but you give it all up without a murmur."

She smiled at that—such a sad little smile.

"I have nothing to give. It was yours all the time. When I found that out, I could not be mean enough to hold an empty claim. I never meant you to know my real reason, but since you have found it out for yourself, you must promise me not to let it interfere with Will's happiness. Don't let me feel that he has to suffer any more because of me. Never let him suspect the truth. He has such a tender heart that it would trouble him sorely if he knew that I had discovered his secret, and I don't want any shadow on our friendship. Promise me, Una, that you will never let him know."

"I promise, Rachel. I had made up my mind about that long ago."

I did not tell her that in making my decision I had considered her feelings, not his. I had imagined that for her pride's sake she would not wish him to know her real reasons for breaking off the engagement. But Rachel herself had no thought of her pride; her anxiety was simply and wholly for Will's comfort.

I looked up at her in a passion of admiration, and in that moment a question which had tormented me for weeks past seemed to find its solution.

"Rachel," I cried, "I know now why this has happened! I have been wondering how anyone so good and unselfish as you could be allowed to have such a trouble as this, and how it could be for the best that you are passed over for a creature like me, but I can understand now. You are too valuable to be shut up in just one home; so many people need you—you can help so wonderfully all round that you are kept free for the general good. The world needs you. You belong to the world."

Her face lit up with happiness.

"Oh, Una, what a lovely thought! I shall remember that, and it will be such a comfort. Kiss me, dear. I am so glad that it is you. I am so thankful that Will has chosen someone whom I can love."

We talked a good deal more, and she said a lot of lovely things that I shall remember all my life. It was as though she were giving over the charge of Will into my hands, and they are such hasty incapable hands that they need all the guiding they can get. She told, me all about him as she had known him all these years—his good qualities, which I was to encourage; his weaknesses, which I was to discourage; his faults, (ah! Will dear, they were nothing compared to mine), which I was to help him to fight. She looked upon it all so seriously, that marriage seemed to become a terrible as well as a beautiful thing. Can it really be true that I have such wonderful power to influence Will for good or evil? Oh, I must be good, I must, I must, for his welfare is fifty thousand times dearer to me than my own!

After this I was constantly at the Grange, and worked like a charwoman helping to pack, and getting ready for the sale. I think I was really of use, for Rachel has not much taste, and I re-arranged things so that they looked ever so much more attractive, and so brought bigger prices. We had very happy times together, and were quite merry, sometimes sitting down to tea on the top of boxes, with our dresses pinned up and covered with aprons, but we never spoke of Will again. That was finished. The last two nights they were in England Mrs Greaves and Rachel spent in our home, and I drove down and saw them off at the station. I knew who was going to meet them at the other end, but even then we did not mention him. Rachel just clung tightly to me, and whispered "Remember!" and that said everything. Then the train puffed slowly out of the station, and I caught one glimpse of her white, white face through the window. Oh! if I live to be a hundred I shall never, never forget her, and I shall love her more than anyone else except my very own people, but I don't think I shall ever see Rachel again in this world!

June 25th. Vere's wedding eve. My poor neglected diary must come out of hiding to hear the record of a time so wonderful to her and to me. I have had very little leisure for thinking of my own affairs since Rachel left, for a wedding means a tremendous amount of work and management, when it involves inviting relations from all parts of the world, buying as many clothes as if you were never expected to see a shop again, and choosing and furnishing a brand-new house. Neither mother nor Vere are strong enough to do much running about, so all the active preparations fell to me, and I had to go up to town to scold dressmakers and hurry up decorators, and threaten cabinet makers, and tell plumbers and ironmongers that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and match patterns, and choose trimmings, and change things that wouldn't do, until Vere said, laughingly, that the wedding seemed far more mine than hers. It kept me so busy that I had no time to dream until I went to bed at nights and then I used to be awake for hours, thinking of Rachel away at the other side of the world, happy in her mother's restored health, and, to judge from the tone of her letters, thoroughly enjoying the complete change of scene after the very quiet life she had led these last years; thinking of Lorna, my dear old faithful Lorna, as good a friend to me as ever, in spite of all the trouble I caused her. It is a year ago now since that wretched affair, and Wallace seems almost his old self again, she says, so I hope he will soon have forgotten all about me. I feel hot and cold whenever I think about it. It is wicked to play at being in love! Suppose I had accepted Wallace out of pique, as I thought of doing for a few mad moments; suppose I had been going to marry him to-morrow—how awful, how perfectly awful I should feel now! How different from Vere, whose face looks so sweet and satisfied that it does one good to look at her.

I have been slaving all day long arranging flowers and presents, and after tea mother just insisted that I should come up to my room to rest for an hour, so here I am, sitting on the very same chair on which I sat in those far-away pre-historic ages when I began this diary, a silly bit of a girl just home from school. I am not so very ancient now as years go, but I have come through some big experiences, and to-day especially I feel full of all sorts of wonderful thoughts and resolutions, because to-morrow—to-morrow, Will is coming, and we shall meet again!

I think Vere guesses, I am almost sure that she does, for she and Jim made such a point of his coming to the wedding, and she gave me his note of acceptance with such a sympathetic little smile. Oh, how anxious I had been until that letter arrived, and now that it is all settled I can hardly rest until to-morrow. Rest! How can I rest? He arrives late to-night, so we shall meet first of all in church. I shall feel as if, like Vere, I am going to meet my bridegroom. It will seem like a double wedding—hers and mine.

The Wedding Day. It has all passed off perfectly, without a single hitch or drawback. To begin with, the weather was ideal, just a typical warm June day, with the sky one deep, unclouded blue. As I looked out of my window this morning the lawns looked like stretches of green velvet, bordered with pink and cream, for it is to be a rose wedding, and the date was fixed to have them at their best. The house is full of visitors, and everybody seemed overflowing with sympathy and kindness.

It must be horrid to be married in a place where you are not known, or in a big town where a lot of strangers collect to stare at you, as if you were part of a show. This dear little place is, to a man, almost as much interested and excited as we are ourselves; the villagers are all friends, for either we have known them since they were babies, or they have known us since we were babies, which comes to the same thing. The old almshouse women had a tea yesterday, and sat in the gallery in church, and the Sunday-school children had a tea to-day, and lined the church path and scattered roses. The Mother's Meeting was in the gallery, too, and the Band of Hope somewhere else, and the Girls' Friendly by the door. The whole place was en fete, with penny flags hanging out of the cottage windows, and streamers tied across the High Street. It all felt so nice, and kind, and homey.

There were eight bridesmaids, and we really did look nice, in white chiffon dresses, shepherdess hats wreathed with roses, and long white staves wreathed with the same.

As for Vere, she was a vision of loveliness, all pink and white and gold. We walked together downstairs into the hall, where father was waiting to receive us. Poor father! the tears came into his eyes as he took her hand, and looked down at her. It must be hard to bring up a child, and go through all the anxiety and care and worry, and then, just when she is old enough to be a real companion, to have to give her up, and see her go away with a "perfect stranger," as Spencer says.

Last night, when I was going to bed, father held me in his arms, and said:

"Thank heaven, I shall have you left, Babs! It will be a long time before I can spare you to another man."

And I hugged him, and said nothing, for I knew... Ah! well, they did it themselves once on a time, so they can't be surprised!

The church was crowded with people, and everybody turned to stare at us as we came in, but I saw only one face—Will's face—with the light I most loved shining in his eyes. I stood at Vere's side, and heard her repeat her vows in sweet, firm tones, which never faltered, but Jim's voice trembled as he made that touching promise of faithfulness "in sickness and in health," and I saw his hand tighten over hers.

It was like a dream—the swelling bursts of music, the faces of the clergy; behind all, the great stained window, with the Christ looking down... Then the wedding march pealed out, we took our places in the carriages, and drove home once more.

Vere and her husband stood beneath one of the arches of the pergola, to receive the congratulations of their friends, a picture couple, as happy as they were handsome. The sky was like a dome of blue, the scent of roses was in the air, and Will came to meet me across the green, green grass.

"Una!" he cried. "At last!" and clasped my hand in his.

Oh, I am terribly happy! I should like everyone in the world to be as happy as I am to-day!

THE END.