ip Norton turned to the Rector, who, poor
man, stood wringing his hands, hardly knowing what to do or say. But
the next moment, with a groan of despair, Philip Norton let his head
drop upon his breast, for he read his sentence in the old man's eyes.
But again, with an effort, he roused himself, and caught Ada's hands in
his, sending a wild thrill through the poor girl's frame, as she averted
her head, and listened, with beating heart, to his words.

"You turn from me too," he said, bitterly; and he did not retract his
words, though Ada started as if stung, and met his gaze, her face
breathing, in every lineament, love and sympathy, though he could not
read it then. "You know, young as you were then, how I loved her.
Plead for me. Ask her to come to me, if but for a minute. But, no--
no--no!" he cried, despairingly, "it is too late! I thought to have
gained heaven, and the door is shut in my face. Too late--too late!"
and then, with the same hopeless, groping, half-blind look in his
countenance, he reeled towards the door, seeing nothing, hearing
nothing, but, mad with grief, striving blindly to leave the house, his
hopes crushed, his life seeming blotted out by the blackness of despair.
He passed into the hall, and there stood for a minute; but only to
mutter to himself: "Weak--weak--broken--too late!"

There was no one in the hall, and he passed out on to the lawn, making
his way towards the little wicket-gate which led into the churchyard,
and, passing through, he stumbled over grave after grave, till unseen,
with a deep groan, he fell heavily, to lie, with his face buried in his
hands, weeping like a child, the strength of his nature crushed out of
him by the terrible blow he had received, and for hours after he heard,
felt, saw, nothing external.

Meanwhile, struggling hard with herself, Ada Lee had watched Philip as
he staggered from the room, the tears welling down her cheeks, and a
strange, wild feeling mingled with the compassion she felt for his
sufferings. It was only by a violent effort that she restrained herself
from running to his side, as she saw his blind, hopeless exit; but, as
she heard the door close, the place seemed to swim round, and then,
overcome by the excitement of the past hour, she threw out her hands and
would have fallen, had not her uncle caught her in his arms.

Two hours later, cold, pale, and without a word in reply to her parents'
farewell, Marion, Lady Gernon, took her place