fading into crocus yellow.

The sun was just vanishing behind the grey roofs when Olva went to
Rocket Road. All day he had been very busy destroying old letters and
papers and seeing to everything so that he should leave no untidiness
nor carelessness behind him. Now it was all over. To-morrow morning,
with enough money but not very much, and with an old rucksack that he
had once had on a walking tour, he would set out. He did not question
this decision--he knew that it was what he was intended to do--but it
was the way that Margaret would take his confession that would make that
journey hard or easy.

He did not know--that was the surprising thing--how she would take it.
He knew her so little. He only knew that he loved her and that she would
do, without flinching, the thing that she felt was right. Oh! but it
would be difficult!

The house, the laurelled drive, the little road, the distant moor and
wood--these things had to-night a gentle air. Over the moor the setting
sun flung a red flame; the woods burned black; the laurels were heavy
with snow and a robin hopped down the drive as Olva passed.

He found Margaret in the drawing-room, and here, too, he fancied that
there was more light and air than on other days.

When the old woman had left the room he suddenly caught Margaret to him
and kissed her as though he would never let her go. She clung to him
with her hands. Then he stood gravely away from her.

"There," he said, "that is the last time that I may kiss you before I
have told you what it is that I have come here to say. But first may I
go up to your mother for a moment?"

"Yes," Margaret said, "if you will not be very long. I do not think that
I can have much more patience." Then she added more slowly, gazing into
his face, "Rupert said last night that you would have something to tell
me to-day. I have been waiting all day for you to come. But Rupert was
his old self last night, and he talked to mother and has made her happy
again. Oh! I think that everything is going to be right!"

"I will soon come down to you," he said.

Mrs. Craven's long dark room was lit by the setting sun; beyond her
windows the straight white fields lifted shining splendour to the stars
already twinkling in the pale sky. Candles were lit on a little black
table by her sofa and the fire was red deep in its cavernous setting.

He stood for a moment in the dim room facing the setting sun, and the
light of the fire played about