surprise. 'Oh, Amy, you will quite overpower me with your goodness!--The
coals of fire,' he finished, sinking his voice, and again pressing his
hand to his brow.

'You must not speak so, Philip,' then looking at him, 'Is your head
aching?'

'Not so much aching as--' he paused, and exclaimed, as if carried away
in spite of himself, 'almost bursting with the thoughts of--of you,
Amy,--of him whom I knew too late,--wilfully misunderstood, envied,
persecuted; who,--oh! Amy, Amy, if you could guess at the anguish of but
one of my thoughts, you would know what the first murderer meant when he
said, "My punishment is greater than I can bear."'

'I can't say don't think,' said Amy, in her sweet, calm tone; 'for I
have seen how happy repentance made him, but I know it must be dreadful.
I suppose the worse it is at the time, the better it must be afterwards.
And I am sure this Prayer-book'--she had her hand on it all the time,
as if it was a pleasure to her to touch it again--'must be a comfort
to you. Did you not see that he made me give it to you to use that day,
when, if ever, there was pardon and peace--'

'I remember,' said Philip, in a low, grave, heartfelt tone; and as she
took the pen, and was writing his name below the old inscription, he
added, 'And the date, Amy, and--yes,' as he saw her write 'From
G. M.'--'but put from A. F. M. too. Thank you! One thing more;' he
hesitated, and spoke very low, 'You _must_ write in it what you said
when you came to fetch me that day,--"A broken"'--

As she finished writing, Mrs. Edmonstone came in. 'My Amy, all is ready.
We must go. Good-bye, Philip,' said she, in the tone of one so eager for
departure as to fancy farewells would hasten it. However, she was not
more eager than Mr. Edmonstone, who rushed in to hurry them on, shaking
hands cordially with Philip, and telling him to make haste and recover
his good looks. Amabel held out her hand. She would fain have said
something cheering, but the power failed her. A deep colour came into
her cheeks; she drew her thick black veil over her face, and turned
away.

Philip came down-stairs with them, saw her enter the carriage followed
by her mother, Mr. Edmonstone outside. He remembered the gay smile with
which he last saw her seated in that carriage, and the active figure
that had sprung after her; he thought of the kind bright eyes that had
pleaded with him for the last time, and recollected the suspicions and
the pride with which