stained face. Both started at his entrance--all wet, and
pale and haggard; but neither spoke. There was that in his face which
froze the words on their lips.

"I am going away to-morrow," he said, abruptly, leaning against the
mantel, and looking at them with quiet, steadfast eyes.

May uttered a faint cry; Guy faced him almost fiercely.

"Going away! What do you mean, Sir Rupert? We are going away together,
if you like."

"No; I go alone. You remain here, it is your place now."

"Never!" cried the young artist, passionately--"never! I will go out and
die like a dog, of starvation, before I rob you of your birthright!"

"You reverse matters," said Rupert Thetford; "it is I who have robbed
you, unwittingly, for too many years. I promised my mother on her
death-bed, as she promised my father on his, that you should have your
right, and I will keep that promise. Guy, dear old fellow! don't let us
quarrel, now that we are brothers, after being friends so long. Take
what is your own; the world is all before me, and surely I am man enough
to win my own way. Not one other word; you shall not come with me; you
might as well talk to these stone walls and try to move them as to move
me. To-morrow I go, and go alone."

"Alone!" It was May who breathlessly repeated the word.

"Alone; all the ties that bound me here are broken; I go alone, and
single-handed, to fight the battle of life Guy, I have spoken to the
rector about you--you will find him your friend and aider; and May is to
make her home at the rectory. And now," turning suddenly, and moving to
the door, "as I start early to-morrow, I believe I'll retire early.
Good-night."

And then he was gone, and Guy and May were left staring at each other
with blank faces.

The storm of wind and rain sobbed itself out before midnight; and in the
bluest of skies, heralded by banners of rosy clouds, rose up the sun
next morning. Before that rising sun had gilded the tops of the tallest
oaks in the park, he, who had so lately called it all his own, had
opened the heavy oaken door and passed from Thetford Towers, as home,
forever. The house was very still--no one had risen; he had left a note
to Guy, with a few brief, warm words of farewell.

"Better so," he thought--"better so! He and May will be happy together,
for I know he loves her, and she him. The memory of my leave-taking
shall never come to cloud their united lives."

One last backward glance at the eastern windows t