the carriage had felt the full
consciousness of the danger. As the carriage went down Hilda clung
more closely to Lord Chetwynde. He, on his part, said not a word, but
braced himself for the fall. The carriage rolled over and over in its
descent, and at last stopped. Lord Chetwynde, with Hilda in his arms,
was thrown violently down. As soon as he could he raised himself and
drew Hilda out from the wreck of the carriage.

She was senseless.

He laid her down upon the grass. Her eyes were closed, her hair was
all disordered, her face was as white as the face of a corpse. A
stream of blood trickled down over her marble forehead from a wound
in her head. It was a piteous sight.

Lord Chetwynde took her in his arms and carried her off a little
distance, to a place where there was some water in the bed of the
brook. With this he sought to restore her to consciousness. For a
long time his efforts were unavailing.

At last he called to the driver.

"Tie up one of the horses and get on the other," he said, "and ride
for your life to the nearest house. Bring help. The lady is stunned,
and must be taken away as soon as possible. Get them to knock up a
litter, and bring a couple of stout fellows back to help us carry
her. Make haste--for your life."

The driver at once comprehended the whole situation. He did as he was
bid, and in a few minutes the sound of his horse's hoofs died away in
the distance.

Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Hilda.

She lay in his arms, her beautiful face on his shoulder, tenderly
supported; that face white, and the lips bloodless, the eyes closed,
and blood trickling from the wound on her head. It was not a sight
upon which any one might look unmoved.

And Lord Chetwynde was moved to his inmost soul by that sight.

Who was this woman? His wife! the one who stood between him and his
desires.

Ah, true! But she was something more.

And now, as he looked at her thus lying in his arms, there came to
him the thought of all that she had been to him--the thought of her
undying love--her matchless devotion. That pale face, those closed
eyes, those mute lips, that beautiful head, stained with oozing
blood, all spoke to him with an eloquence which awakened a response
within him.

Was this the end of all that love and that devotion? Was this the
fulfillment of his promise to General Pomeroy? Was he doing by this
woman as she had done by him? Had she not made more than the fullest
atonement for