where just at the
critical moment when she was in such deadly peril. Then, after their
clothes had been dried, they had walked together as far as the little
bridge at the entrance to Fotheringhay.

There he had stopped, bent gallantly over her hand, congratulated her
upon her escape, and as their ways lay in opposite directions--she back
to Woodnewton and he on to Oundle--they had parted. "I hope, Miss
Heyburn, that we may meet again one day," he had laughed cheerily as he
raised his hat, "Good-bye." Then he had turned away, and had been lost
to view round the bend of the road.

She was safe. That man whom she had known long ago under such strange
circumstances, whom she would probably never see again, had been her
rescuer. Of this curious and romantic fact she was now thinking.

But where was Walter? Why had he not replied to her letter? Ah! that was
the one thought which oppressed her always, sleeping and waking, day and
night. Why had he not written? Would he never write again?

She had at first consoled herself with the thought that he was probably
on the Continent, and that her letter had not been forwarded. But as the
days went on, and no reply came, the truth became more and more apparent
that her lover--the man whom she adored and worshipped--had put her
aside, had accepted her at her own estimate as worthless.

A thousand times she had regretted the step she had taken in writing
that cruel letter before she left Glencardine. But it was all too late.
She had tried to retract; but, alas! it was now impossible.

Tears welled in her splendid eyes at thought of the man whom she had
loved so well. The world had, indeed, been cruel to her. Her enemies had
profited by her inexperience, and she had fallen an unhappy victim of an
unscrupulous blackguard. Yes, it was only too true. She did not try to
conceal the ugly truth from herself. Yet she had been compelled to keep
Walter in ignorance of the truth, for he loved her.

A hardness showed at the corners of her sweet lips, and the tears rolled
slowly down her cheeks. Then, bestirring herself with an effort, her
white fingers ran over the keys again, and in her sweet, musical voice
she sang "L'Heure d'Aimer," that pretty _valse chantee_ so popular in
Paris:--

Voici l'heure d'aimer, l'heure des tendresses;
Dis-moi les mots tres doux qui vont me griser,
Ah! prends-moi dans tes bras, fais-moi des caresses;
Je veux mourir pour revivre sous ton baiser.
E