ment,--a sound--or a shadow on the
grass--and she uttered a cry of terror. Then, turning, she rushed out of
the churchyard, and away--away up the hills, towards the rocks that
over-hung the sea.

Meanwhile, Angus Reay, feverish and miserable, had been shut up in his
one humble little room for hours, wrestling with himself and trying to
work out the way in which he could best master and overcome what he
chose to consider the complete wreck of his life at what had promised
to be its highest point of happiness. He could not shake himself free of
the clinging touch of Mary's arms--her lovely, haunting blue eyes looked
at him piteously out of the very air. Never had she been to him so
dear--so unutterably beloved!--never had she seemed so beautiful as now
when he felt that he must resign all claims of love upon her.

"For she will be sought after by many a better man than myself,"--he
said--"Even rich men, who do not need her millions, are likely to admire
her--and why should I stand in her way?--I, who haven't a penny to call
my own! I should be a coward if I kept her to her promise. For she does
not know yet--she does not see what the possession of Helmsley's
millions will mean to her. And by and bye when she does know she will
change--she will be grateful to me for setting her free----"

He paused, and the hot tears sprang to his eyes--"No--I am wrong!
Nothing will change Mary! She will always be her sweet self--pure and
faithful!--and she will do all the good with Helmsley's money that he
believed and hoped she would. But I--I must leave her to it!"

Then the thought came to him that he had perhaps been rough in speech to
her that day--abrupt in parting from her--even unkind in overwhelming
her with the force of his abnegation, when she was so tired with her
journey--so worn out--so weary looking. Acting on a sudden impulse, he
threw on his cap.

"I will go and say good-night to her,"--he said--"For the last time!"

He strode swiftly up the village street and saw through the cottage
window that the lamp was lighted on the table. He knocked at the door,
but there was no answer save a tiny querulous bark from Charlie. He
tried the latch; it was unfastened, and he entered. The first object he
saw was Charlie, tied to a chair, with a small saucer of untasted food
beside him. The little dog capered to the length of his ribbon, and
mutely expressed the absence of his kind mistress, while Angus,
bewildered, looked round t