the street in his usual slow and somewhat casual manner.

That evening,--the evening of the day on which all that was mortal of
"old David" had been committed to the gentle ground, Mary unlocked the
cupboard of which he had given her the key on the last night of his
life, and took out the bulky packet it contained. She read the
superscription with some surprise and uneasiness. It was addressed to a
Mr. Bulteel, in a certain street near Chancery Lane, London. Now Mary
had never been to London in her life. The very idea of going to that
vast unknown metropolis half scared her, and she sat for some minutes,
with the sealed packet in her lap, quite confused and troubled.

"Yet I made the promise!" she said to herself--"And I dare not break it!
I must go. And I must not tell Angus anything about it--that's the worst
part of all!"

She gazed wistfully at the packet,--anon she turned it over and over. It
was sealed in several places--but the seal had no graven impress, the
wax having merely been pressed with the finger.

"I must go!" she repeated. "I'm bound to deliver it myself to the man
for whom it is intended. But what a journey it will be! To London!"

Absorbed in thought, she started as a tap came at the cottage door,--and
rising, she hurriedly put the package out of sight, just as Angus
entered.

"Mary," he said, as he came towards her--"Do you know, I've been
thinking we had better get quietly married as soon as possible?"

She smiled.

"Why? Is the book finished?" she asked.

"No, it isn't. I wish it was! But it will be finished in another
month----"

"Then let us wait that other month," she said. "You will be happier, I
know, if the work is off your mind."

"Yes--I shall be happier--but Mary, I can't bear to think of you all
alone in this little cottage----"

She gently interrupted him.

"I was all alone for five years after my father died," she said. "And
though I was sometimes a little sad, I was not dull, because I always
had work to do. Dear old David was a good companion, and it was pleasant
to take care of him--indeed, this last year has been quite a happy one
for me, and I shan't find it hard to live alone in the cottage for just
a month now. Don't worry about me, Angus!"

He stooped and picked up Charlie, who, since his master's death, had
been very dispirited.

"You see, Mary," he said, as he fondled the little dog and stroked its
silky hair--"nothing will alter the fact that you are rich