, although dully enough and I fear sullenly. He slipped his hand
into his breast and drew forth a small object which he held shut in his
hand while he again discoursed to me.

'What I am going to give you, Raphael, is the little picture of a lass
who is in my eyes a thing of Heaven's best making. For loyalty, honour,
courage, truth, faith, she is an unmatchable maid. I have known her all
the days of my life and never found a flaw in her.'

Then he opened his hand and I saw that it held a picture, an oval
miniature in a fine gold frame. My mind was all on fire for the black
eyes of piratical Barbara and my blood was tingling to a gipsy tune, but
as I stared at the image in my comrade's palm my mind was arrested and
my fancy for the instant fixed. For it showed the face of a girl, a
child of Lancelot's age or a little under, and through my tears I could
perceive the sweetness of the countenance and its likeness to my friend
in the fair hair and the fine eyes.

'This is my sister, this is Marjorie,' Lancelot said slowly. 'She has
the truest soul, the noblest heart in all the world. I think it will
help you to have it and to look on it from time to time, as it always
helps me when I am away from her.'

As he spoke he pushed the picture gently into my unresisting fingers and
closed them over it. 'My sister Marjorie is a wonderful girl,' he said,
with a bright smile. He was silent for a little while as if musing upon
her and then his tender thoughts returned to me.

'Come away, Raphael,' he said. 'Let us be going home. The hour is late,
and your mother may be anxious; and you have her still, whatever else
you may have lost.'

The grace of his voice conquered me. I rose at the word, staggering a
little as I gained my feet, for passion and grief had torn me like
devils, and I was faint and bewildered. He slipped his arm into mine and
led me away, supporting me as carefully as if I were a woman whom his
solicitude was aiding. We exchanged no word together as we went along
the downs and through the fields. As we came to the town, however, he
paused by the last stile and spoke to me.

'Dear heart!' he said, 'but I am sorry for all this--more sorry than I
can say; for I am going away to-morrow.'

The words shook me from myself and my apathy. I gazed in wonder and
alarm into his face.

'I am going away,' he said, 'and that's how I chanced to find you. For I
waited in vain for you at Mr. Davies's, and sought you at your hom