trust, to be made as full and deep and
fruitful a thing as a man's energy and talent could make it. To Gideon
Strong he owed much, but it was a debt which surely could be paid in
other ways than this.

He stopped short. A light footstep close at hand startled, then
thrilled him. It was Cicely--hatless, breathless with the climb, and
very fair to see in the faint half-lights. For Cicely, though she was
Gideon Strong's daughter, was not of Feldwick or Feldwick ways, nor were
her gowns simple, though they were fashioned by a village dressmaker.
She had lived all her life with distant relatives near London. Douglas
had never seen her till two months ago, and her coming had been a
curious break in the life at the farm.

He moved quickly to meet her. For a moment their hands met. Then she
drew away.

"How good of you, Cicely," he cried. "I felt that I must talk to some
one or go mad."

She stood for a moment recovering her breath--her bosom rising and
falling quickly under her dark gown, a pink flush in her cheeks. Her
hair, fair and inclined to curliness, had escaped bounds a little, and
she brushed it impatiently back.

"I must only stay for a moment, Douglas," she said, gravely. "Let us go
down the hill by the Beacon. We shall be on the way home."

They walked side by side in silence. Neither of them were wholly at
their ease. A new element had entered into their intercourse. The
wonderfully free spirit of comradeship which had sprung up between them
since her coming, and which had been so sweet a thing to him, was for
the moment, at least, interrupted.

"I want you to tell me, Douglas," she said at last, "exactly how much of
a surprise to-day has been to you."

"It is easily done," he answered. "Last night I went to your father. I
tried to thank him as well as I was able for all that he has done for
me. I then told him that with every respect for his wishes I did not
feel myself prepared at present to enter the ministry. I showed him my
diplomas and told him of my degrees. I told him what I wished--to
become a schoolmaster, for a year or two, at any rate. Well, he
listened to me in fixed silence. When I had finished he asked, 'Is that
all?' I said, 'Yes,' and he turned his back upon me. 'Your future is
already provided for, Douglas,' he said. 'I will speak to you of it
to-morrow.' Then he walked away. That is all the warning I had."

"And what about Joan?"

His face flushed hotly.

"No word from him, nor a