inly can do, if you'll let me.

"I shall be coming home presently; but, for the moment, I must stop
here. There is a gigantic deal of work waiting for me; but working for
myself and somebody else are two very different things. I don't grudge
the work now, since the result of the work means more power.

"I hope this is all clear. If it isn't, we must thresh it out when we
meet. All I want you to grasp for the moment is that I love you as well
as ever--better than anything in the world--and, because I want us to be
the dearest friends always, I'm not going to marry you.

"Your mother and Uncle Ernest will of course take the conventional line,
and my Aunt Jennie will do the same; but I hope you won't bother about
them. Your welfare lies with me. Don't let them talk you into making a
martyr of yourself, or any nonsense of that sort.

"Always, my dearest Sabina,
"Your faithful pal,
"RAY."

Half an hour later Mrs. Dinnett took the letter in to Mr. Churchouse.

"Death," she said. "Death is in the air. Sabina has gone to bed and I'm
going for the doctor. He's broke off the engagement and wants her to be
his housekeeper. And this is a Christian country, or supposed to be.
Says it's going to be quite all right and offers her money and a
lifetime of sin!"

"Be calm, Mary, be calm. You must have misread the letter. Go and get
the doctor by all means if Sabina has succumbed. And leave the letter
with me. I will read it carefully. That is if it is not private."

"No, it ain't private. He slaps at us all. We're all conventional
people, which means, I suppose, that we fear God and keep the laws. But
if my gentleman thinks--"

"Go and get the doctor, Mary. Two heads are better than one in a case
of this sort. I feel sure you and Sabina are making a mistake."

"The world shall ring," said Mrs. Dinnett, "and we'll see if he can show
his face among honest men again. We that have abided by the law all our
days--now we'll see what the law can do for us against this godless
wretch."

She went off to the village and Ernest cried after her to say nothing at
present. He knew, however, as he spoke that it was vain.

Then he put away his own work and read the letter very carefully twice
through.

Profound sorrow came upon him and his innate optimism was over-clouded.
This seemed no longer the Raymond Ironsyde he had known from childhood.
It was not even the Raymond of a month ago. He perceived how potential
qualities of mind had a