red that only a providential chance
had restrained him from some fatal disclosure to Mabel that afternoon
on the bridge. But at least he had acted for the best, and he would
hope for it.

Thinking thus, he recrossed the river to Klein-Laufingen, where a
mounted German officer, many sizes too big for the little street, was
rousing it from its first slumber as he clattered along, with his
horse's hoofs striking sparks from the rough cobbles, and passed under
the old gateway, where his accoutrements gleamed for an instant in the
lamplight before horse and rider vanished in the darkness beyond.
Vincent passed out, too, out on the broad white road, and down the
hill to his homely _Gasthaus_. He felt weak and very lonely--lonelier
even than when he had parted from Mabel long ago on the eve of his
Ceylon voyage. He could hope then; now he had lost her for ever!
Still, one of his wishes had been granted--he had been able to be of
service to her, to make some sacrifice for her dear sake. She would
never know either of his love or his sacrifice, and though he could
not pretend that there was no bitterness in that, he felt that it was
better thus. 'After all,' he thought, 'she loves that fellow. She
would never have cared for me.' And there was truth in this last
conclusion. Even if Mabel and Mark had never met, and she could have
known Vincent as he was, the knowledge might not have taught her to
love. A woman cannot give her heart as a _prix Montyon_, or there
might be more bachelors than there are.

CHAPTER XXXV.

MISSED FIRE!

It was an evening early in May, and Harold Caffyn was waiting at
Victoria for the arrival of the Dover train, which was bringing back
Mark and Mabel from the Continent. This delicate attention on his part
was the result of a painful uncertainty which had been vexing him ever
since the morning on which he read Vincent's farewell note at
Wastwater. 'It is a poor tale,' as Mrs. Poyser might say, to throw
your bomb and never have the satisfaction of hearing it explode--and
yet that was his position; he had 'shot his arrow into the air,' like
Longfellow; but, less fortunate than the poet, he was anything but
sure that his humble effort had reached 'the heart of a friend.' Now
he was going to know. One thing he had ascertained from the
Langtons--Vincent Holroyd had certainly followed the couple to
Laufingen, and they had seen him there--Harold had found Mrs. Langton
full of the wonderful news of