change.'

Without intending it, she ceased upon a word which to her hearer
conveyed a twofold meaning. He understood; offer what he might, it
could not tempt her to forget the love which had been the best part of
her life. She was faithful to the past, and unchanging.

Mrs. Byass never suspected the second purpose for which her lodger had
desired to speak with Jane this evening. Scawthorne in due time took
his departure, with many expressions of goodwill, many assurances that
nothing could please him better than to be of service to Bessie and her
husband.

'He wished me to say good-bye to you for him,' said Bessie, when Jane
came back from her work.

So the romance in her life was over. Michael Snowdon's wealth had
melted away; with it was gone for ever the hope of realising his high
projects. All passed into the world of memory, of dream--all save the
spirit which had ennobled him, the generous purpose bequeathed to those
two hearts, which had loved him best.

To his memory all days were sacred; but one, that of his burial, marked
itself for Jane as the point in each year to which her life was
directed, the saddest, yet bringing with it her supreme solace.

A day in early spring, cloudy, cold. She left the workroom in the
dinner-hour, and did net return. But instead of going to Hanover
Street, she walked past Islington Green, all along Essex Road,
northward thence to Stoke Newington, and so came to Abney Park
Cemetery; a long way, but it did not weary her.

In the cemetery she turned her steps to a grave with a plain headstone.
Before leaving England, Joseph Snowdon had discharged this duty. The
inscription was simply a name, with dates of birth and death.

And, as she stood there, other footsteps approached the spot. She
looked up, with no surprise, and gave her hand for a moment. On the
first anniversary the meeting had been unanticipated; the same thought
led her and Sidney to the cemetery at the same hour. This was the third
year, and they met as if by understanding, though neither had spoken of
it.

When they had stood in silence for a while, Jane told of her father's
death and its circumstances. She told him, too, of Pennyloaf's humble
security.

'You have kept well all the year?' he asked.

'And you too, I hope?'

Then they bade each other good-bye. . . .

In each life little for congratulation. He with the ambitions of his
youth frustrated; neither an artist, nor a leader of men in the battle