sy
skies of Arizona and New Mexico he could almost fancy himself once more
in search of the "Valley of the Eye."

And in the cities and turmoil of civilisation so striking a personality
as that of Renshaw Fanning was not likely to go unnoticed. For the man
who owned that noble, refined face, bronzed with exposure, and when in
repose never altogether free from a touch of saddened gravity--all
manner of pitfalls were laid. Bright eyes beamed upon him, and soft
voices cooed their softest. All in vain, however. His heart was
seared. But eventually when the numbness of the shock did begin to wear
away, it was homeward that the wanderer's heart turned; and in place of
the soiled and dethroned image there arose another; more pure, more
fair, more wholesome; that of sweet Marian Selwood. And under this
influence, the cycle of his wanderings completed, he dismounted before
the garden gate at Sunningdale one evening, and entering the house as if
he were returning home, found Marian alone. And then, almost at his
first words, the latter had realised that it was good indeed to live,
nor was it long before the secret of a lifetime's love was wrested from
her beautiful lips. So now Marian is a two months' bride; making a
final visit to her old home preparatory to settling down upon the
flourishing farm which Renshaw has purchased within a dozen miles of
Sunningdale.

Sometimes he talks of making another expedition to the wonderful Valley.
True, the marvellous "Eye" shines there in the moonlight no more, but
the place holds other stones, and as yet he has only touched the fringe
of its wealth. But Marian's mind is made up against, and her foot is
down on, any such scheme. Has not the mystic jewel proved indeed a
demon's eye to all concerned. They have enough, and life is better than
inordinate wealth. Is he not content with the grisly risk he has run,
so narrowly escaping with his life? And Renshaw, with a laugh, is fain
to answer that he is. Yet peradventure, some day, when the quiver is
full--but we must not anticipate.

Not a word more has been heard of Maurice Sellon or the partner of his
flight--not a word beyond the brief reassurance on the score of her
bodily safety which Violet had had the grace to forward to poor old Mrs
Aldridge by the last boat which left the New Zealand steamer. Not a
word more is even likely to be heard of either. That "the way of the
transgressors is hard" may be a good and edifying ax