nce last night. I reason with
myself. I see you love her. Do not turn away. I have seen her. I have
given her back her promise. I give her up to you whom she loves; and
now--I go away, not to return."

And then, in the full view of the Atherstone windows, of the butler, and
of the dog-cart at the front door, Dare embraced him, kissing the
blushing and disconcerted Charles on both cheeks. Then, in a moment,
before the latter had recovered his self-possession, Dare had darted to
the dog-cart, and was driving away.

Charles looked after him in mixed annoyance and astonishment, until he
noticed the butler's eye upon him, when he hastily retreated, with a
heightened complexion, to the shrubberies.

CONCLUSION.

It was the last day of October, about a week after a certain very quiet
little funeral had taken place in the D---- Cemetery. The death of
Raymond Deyncourt had appeared in the papers a day or two afterwards,
without mention of date or place, and it was generally supposed that it
had taken place some considerable time previously, without the knowledge
of his friends.

Charles had been sitting for a long time with Mr. Alwynn, and after he
left the rectory he took the path over the fields in the direction of
the Slumberleigh woods.

The low sun was shining redly through a golden haze, was sending long
burning shafts across the glade where Charles was pacing. He sat down at
last upon a fallen tree to wait for one who should presently come by
that way.

It was a still, clear afternoon, with a solemn stillness that speaks of
coming change. Winter was at hand, and the woods were transfigured with
a passing glory, like the faces of those who depart in peace when death
draws nigh.

Far and wide in the forest the bracken was all aflame--aflame beneath
the glowing trees. The great beeches had turned to bronze and ruddy
gold, and had strewed the path with carpets glorious and rare, which the
first wind would sweep away. Upon the limes the amber leaves still hung,
faint yet loath to go, but the horse-chestnut had already dropped its
garment of green and yellow at its feet.

A young robin was singing at intervals in the silence, telling how the
secrets of the nests had been laid bare, singing a requiem on the dying
leaves and the widowed branches, a song new to him, but with the old
plaintive rapture in it that his fathers had been taught before him
since the world began.

* * * *