agerly, as a miser clutches a
treasure-trove, pressing it wildly to her bosom, and covering it with
passionate kisses. Dear little shabby case, that had been so near his
heart; that his hand, perchance, only on hour ago had touched. Could
anything on earth be more priceless to her than this worn and faded
object!

It seemed to be quite empty. It had fallen evidently from his pocket
during the service. If he ever missed it, there was nothing in it to
lose; and now it was hers, hers by every right; she would never part with
it, never. It was all she had of him; the one single thing he had touched
which she possessed.

She rose hurriedly. She was in haste now to be gone with her treasure,
lest any one should wrest it from her. She carried it down the church
with a guilty delight, kissing it more than once as she went. And then,
as she opened the church door, some one ran up the steps outside, and she
stood face to face with Sir John Kynaston.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RUSSIA-LEATHER CASE.

"Never again," so speaketh one forsaken,
In the blank desolate passion of despair:
Never again shall the bright dream I cherished
Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there:
The Angel Hope shall still my cruel pain;
Never again, my heart--never again!

A. Procter.

"Vera!"

Sir John Kynaston fell back a step or two and turned very white.

"How do you do?" said Vera, quietly, and put out her hand.

They stood in the open air. There was a carriage passing, some idle
cabmen on the stand with nothing to do but to stare at them, a gaping
nursery-maid and her charges at the gate. Whatever people may feel on
suddenly running against each other after a deadly quarrel, or a
heart-rending separation, or after a long interval of heart-burnings and
misunderstandings, there are always the externals of life to be observed.
It is difficult to rush into the tragedy of one's existence at a gulp; it
is safer to shake hands and say, "How do you do?"

That is what Vera felt, and that was what these two people did. Sir John
took her proffered hand, and responded to her stereotyped greeting. By
the time he had done so he had recovered his presence of mind.

"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church," he said,
rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here this
morning?"

"Yes; I was in the church."

"Were you? How glad I am I did not know it," almost involuntarily.

There was a little paus