rse we must; and 'igh time too, if you knew what mother'll say
when I get home. You mustn't think I 'aven't enjoyed myself, though,"
she added, "because I 'ave."

Out in the street as they walked arm in arm she unbent still further.
"I shall tell mother, of course. She won't mind when she knows it's
you, because you're so respectable. But girls 'ave to be careful."

At her door she paused before saying good-night. She loved Dick, of
course; but she wondered a little what Mr. Gilbart meant. His manner
had been so queer when he said, "Must we be going?"

For a moment she waited, half expecting him to say something, meaning to
be angry if he said it. Such was her crude idea of coquettishness.
But John Gilbart merely shook hands, waited until the door closed behind
her, and bent his steps toward home.

That was in the next street. He walked briskly up to the door--then
turned on his heel and strode away rapidly. He could not go upstairs;
could not face the silent hours alone. As he retreated the front door
was opened. Mrs. Wilcox had been sitting up for him, and had heard and
recognised his footstep. He ran. After a minute the door was closed
again.

At nine o'clock next morning a sentry on the seaward side of Tregantle
Fort saw a man sitting below in the sunshine on the edge of the cliff,
and took him for a tramp. It was John Gilbart. He had spent the night
trudging the streets, but always returning to the pavement in front of
one or the other of the two important newspaper offices. Lights shone
in the upper windows of each, but all was quiet; and he saw the men
leave one by one and walk away into darkness with brisk but regular
footfall. A little before dawn he had caught the newspaper-train for
the west, left it at the first station over the Cornish border and set
his face toward the sea. His walk took him past dewy hedgerows over
which the larks sang. But he neither saw nor heard. A deep peace had
fallen upon him. He knew himself now; had touched the bottom of his
cowardice, his falsity. He would never be happy again, but he could
never deceive himself again; no, not though God interfered.

He looked out on the sunshine with purged eyes. Now and then he
listened, as if for some sound from the horizon or the great town behind
him.

_Had_ God interfered? How still the world was!

THE CELLARS OF RUEDA.

I.

I ENTER THE CELLARS.

It happened on a broiling afternoon in July 1812