lost all that was dear to her; and, young as she was,
with hardly any experience of the world and its ways, she was already
the victim of grim circumstance, broken by the grief of a self-renounced
love gnawing at her true heart.

The knowledge that Lady Heyburn and Flockart would exult over her
downfall and exile to that tiny house in a sleepy little
Northamptonshire village did not trouble her. Her enemies had triumphed.
She had played the game and lost, just as she might have lost at
billiards or at bridge, for she was a thorough sportswoman. She only
grieved because she saw the grave peril of her dear father, and because
she now foresaw the utter hopelessness of her own happiness.

It was better, she reflected, far better, that she should go into the
dull and dreary exile of an English village, with the unexciting
companionship of Aunt Emily, an ascetic spinster of the mid-Victorian
era, and make pretence of pique with Walter, than to reveal to him the
shameful truth. He would at least in those circumstances retain of her a
recollection fond and tender. He would not despise nor hate her, as he
most certainly would do if he knew the real astounding facts.

How long she remained there, high up, with the chill winds of autumn
tossing her silky, light-brown hair, she knew not. Rainclouds were
gathering, and the rugged hill before her was now hidden behind a bank
of mist. Time had crept on without her heeding it, for what did time now
matter to her? What, indeed, did anything matter? Her young life, though
she was still in her teens, had ended; or, at least, as far as she was
concerned it had. Was she not calmly and coolly contemplating telling
the truth and putting an end to her existence after saving her father's
honour?

Her sad, tearful eyes gazed slowly about her as she suddenly awakened to
the fact that she was far--very far--from home. She had been dazed,
unconscious of everything, because of the heavy burden of grief within
her heart. But now she looked forth upon the small, grey loch, with its
dark fringe of trees, the grey and purple hills beyond, the grey sky,
and the grey, filmy mists that hung everywhere. The world was, indeed,
sad and gloomy, and even Jock sat looking up at his young mistress as
though regarding her grief in wonder.

Now and then distant shots came from across the hills. They were
shooting over the Drummond estate, she knew, for she had had an
invitation to join their luncheon-party th