mforter, tarpaulin overalls, and
knit cap. He looked at her an instant, standing there, shivering, and
then he retired a pace or two and closed the door to the cellar, by
which he had entered the house. Even this little movement in the
intruder had something familiar about it. He advanced again, directly
and rapidly, toward her, but she did not scream. He threw both arms
around her, and she did not cry. Something had entered with that bold
figure which extinguished all crime and superstition in the monarchy of
its presence--Love.

A kiss, as fervent and long as only the reunited ever give with purity,
drew the soul of the suspected murderer and his sweetheart into one
temple.

"Agnes," he whispered hoarsely, when it was given, "they have followed
me hard to-night. Every place I might have resorted to is watched. All
Kensington--my oldest friends--believe me guilty! I cannot face it. With
this kiss I must go."

"Oh, Andrew, do not! Here is the place to make your peace; here take
your stand and await the worst."

"Agnes," he repeated, "I have no defence. Nothing but silence would
defend me now, and that would hang me to the gallows. I come to put my
life and soul into your hands. Can you pray for me, bad as I am?"

"Dear Andrew," answered Agnes, weeping fast, "I have no power to stop
you, and I cannot give you up. Yes, I will pray for you now, before you
start on your journey. Go open those folding-doors and we will pray in
the other room."

"What is there?"

"Your father."

He stopped a long while, and his cheek was blanched.

"Go first," he whispered finally. "I am not afraid."

She led the way to the bier, where the body, with the frost hardly yet
thawed from it, lay under the dim light of the chandelier. Turning up
the burners it was revealed in its relentless, though not unhappy,
expression--a large and powerful man, bearded and with tassels of gray
in his hair.

The young man in his coarse sailor's garb, muffled up for concealment
and disguise, placed his arm around Agnes, and his knees were unsteady
as he gazed down on the remains and began to sob.

"Dear," she murmured, also weeping, "I know you loved him!"

The young man's sobs became so loud that Agnes drew him to a chair, and
as she sat upon it he laid his head in her lap and continued there to
express a deep inward agony.

"I loved him always," he articulated at last, "so help me God, I did!
And a _parricide_! Can you survive it?"

"Andrew