ing. Yet on, and still on, she went, her mind full of the events
of the previous night; full, also, of the dread secret which prevented
her from exposing her father's false friend. In order to save her
father, should she sacrifice herself--sacrifice her own life? That was
the one problem before her.

She saw nothing; she heeded nothing. Hunger or fatigue troubled her not.
Indeed, she took no notice of where her footsteps led her. Beyond Crieff
she wandered, along the river-bank a short distance, ascending a hill,
where a wild and wonderful view spread before her. There she sat down
upon a big boulder to rest.

Her hair blown by the chill wind, she sat staring straight before her,
thinking--ever thinking. She had not seen Lady Heyburn that day. She had
seen no one.

At six o'clock that morning she had written a long letter to Walter
Murie. She had not mentioned the midnight incident, but she had, with
many expressions of regret, pointed out the futility of any further
affection between them. She had not attempted to excuse herself. She
merely told him that she considered herself unworthy of his love, and
because of that, and that alone, she had decided to break off their
engagement.

A dozen times she had reread the letter after she had completed it.
Surely it was the letter of a heart-broken and desperate woman. Would he
take it in the spirit in which it was meant, she wondered. She loved
him--ah, loved him better than any one else in all the world! But she
now saw that it was useless to masquerade any longer. The blow had
fallen, and it had crushed her. She was powerless to resist, powerless
to deny the false charge against her, powerless to tell the truth.

That letter, which she knew must come as a cruel blow to Walter, she had
given to the postman with her own hands, and it was now on its way
south. As she sat on the summit of that heather-clad hill she was
wondering what effect her written words would have upon him. He had
loved her so devotedly ever since they had been children together! Well
she knew how strong was his passion for her, how his life was at her
disposal. She knew that on reading those despairing lines of hers he
would be staggered. She recalled the dear face of her soul-mate, his hot
kisses, his soft terms of endearment, and alone there, with none to
witness her bitter grief, she burst into a flood of tears.

The sad greyness of the landscape was in keeping with her own great
sorrow. She had