at day. Lady Heyburn and
Flockart had no doubt gone.

That, she told herself, was her last day in the Highlands, that
picturesque, breezy country she loved so well. It was her last day amid
those familiar places where she and Walter had so often wandered
together, and where he had told her of his passionate devotion. Well,
perhaps it was best, after all. Down south she would not be reminded of
him every moment and at every turn. No, she sighed within herself as she
rose to descend the hill, she must steel herself against her own sad
reflections. She must learn how to forget.

"What will he say?" she murmured aloud as she went down, with Jock
frisking and barking before her. "What will he think of me when he gets
my letter? He will believe me fickle; he will believe that I have
another lover. That is certain. Well, I must allow him to believe it. We
have parted, and we must now, alas! remain apart for ever. Probably he
will seek from my father the truth concerning my disappearance from
Glencardine. Dad will tell him, no doubt. And then--then, what will he
believe? He--he will know that I am unworthy to be his wife. Yet--yet is
it not cruel that I dare not speak the truth and clear myself of this
foul charge of betraying my own dear father? Was ever a girl placed in
such a position as myself, I wonder. Has any girl ever loved a man
better than I love Walter?" Her white lips were set hard, and her fine
eyes became again bedimmed by tears.

It commenced to rain, that fine drizzle so often experienced north of
the Tweed. But she heeded not. She was used to it. To get wet through
was, to her, quite a frequent occurrence when out fishing. Though there
was no path, she knew her way; and, walking through the wet heather, she
came after half-an-hour out upon a muddy byroad which led her into the
town of Crieff, whence her return was easy; though it was already dusk,
and the dressing-bell had gone, before she re-entered the house by the
servants' door and slipped unobserved up to her own room.

Elise found her seated in her blue gown before the welcome fire-log, her
chin upon her breast. Her excuse was that she felt unwell; therefore one
of the maids brought her some dinner on a tray.

Upon the mantelshelf were many photographs, some of them snap-shots of
her schoolfellows and souvenirs of holidays, the odds and ends of
portraits and scenes which every girl unconsciously collects.

Among them, in a plain silver frame, was th