as slowly pacing up and down when Brian Luttrell came out of the
house in search of him.

Hugo gave him a searching glance as he approached, and was not
reassured. Brian's face wore a curiously restrained expression, which
gave it a look of sternness. Hugo's heart beat fast; he threw away the
end of his cigar, and advanced to meet his cousin with an air of
unconcern which was evidently assumed for the occasion. It passed
unremarked, however. Brian was in no mood for considering Hugo's
expression of countenance.

They took two or three turns up and down the garden walk without
uttering a word. Brian was absorbed in thought, and Hugo had his own
reasons for being afraid to open his mouth. It was Brian who spoke at
last.

"Come away from the house," he said. "I want to speak to you, and we
can't talk easily underneath all these windows. We'll go down to the
loch."

"Not to the loch," said Hugo, hastily.

Brian considered a moment. "You are right," he said, in a low tone, "we
won't go there. Come this way." For the moment he had forgotten that
painful scene at the boat-house, which no doubt made Hugo shrink
sensitively from the sight of the place. He was sorry that he had
suggested it.

The day was calm and mild, but not brilliant. The leaves of the trees
had taken on an additional tinge of autumnal yellow and red since Brian
last looked at them with an observant eye. For the past week he had
thought of nothing but of the intolerable grief and pain that had come
upon him. But now the peace and quiet of the day stole upon him
unawares; there was a restfulness in the sight of the steadfast hills,
of the waving trees--a sense of tranquility even in the fall of the
yellowing leaves and the flight of the migrating song-birds overhead.
His eye grew calmer, his brow more smooth, as he walked silently onward;
he drew a long breath, almost like one of relief; then he stopped short,
and leaned against the trunk of a tall fir tree, looking absently before
him, as though he had forgotten the reason for his proposed interview
with his cousin. Hugo grew impatient. They had left the garden, and were
walking down a grassy little-trodden lane between two tracks of wooded
ground; it led to the tiny hamlet at the head of the loch, and thence to
the high road. Hugo wondered whether the conversation were to be held
upon the public highway or in the lane. If it had to do with his own
private affairs, he felt that he would prefer the lane