and she--was gone! Again he reverted to the miserable
idea that, like a melancholy refrain, haunted him--"What if I should
find her _dead_!"

Absorbed in painful reflections, he was a very silent companion for
Lorimer during the luncheon which they took at a quiet little restaurant
well known to the _habitues_ of Pall Mall and Regent Street. Lorimer
himself had his own reasons for being equally depressed and
anxious,--for did he not love Thelma as much as even her husband
could?--nay, perhaps more, knowing his love was hopeless. Not always
does possession of the adored object strengthen the adoration,--the
rapturous dreams of an ideal passion have often been known to surpass
reality a thousandfold. So the two friends exchanged but few
words,--though they tried to converse cheerfully on indifferent
subjects, and failed in the attempt. They had nearly finished their
light repast, when a familiar voice saluted them.

"It _is_ Errington,--I thocht I couldna be mistaken! How are ye both?"

Sandy Macfarlane stood before them, unaltered, save that his scanty
beard had grown somewhat longer. They had seen nothing of him since
their trip to Norway, and they greeted him now with unaffected
heartiness, glad of the distraction his appearance afforded them.

"Where do you hail from, Mac?" asked Lorimer, as he made the new-comer
sit down at their table. "We haven't heard of you for an age."

"It _is_ a goodish bit of time," assented Macfarlane, "but better late
than never. I came up to London a week ago from Glasgie,--and my heed
has been in a whirl ever since. Eh, mon! but it's an awful place!--maybe
I'll get used to't after a wee whilie."

"Are you going to settle here, then?" inquired Errington, "I thought you
intended to be a minister somewhere in Scotland?"

Macfarlane smiled, and his eyes twinkled.

"I hae altered ma opee-nions a bit," he said. "Ye see, ma aunt in
Glasgie's deed--"

"I understand," laughed Lorimer. "You've come in for the old lady's
money?"

"Puir body!" and Sandy shook his head gravely. "A few hours before she
died she tore up her will in a screamin' fury o' Christian charity and
forethought,--meanin' to mak anither in favor o' leavin' a' her warld's
trash to the Fund for Distributin' Bible Knowledge among the
Heathen--but she never had time to fulfill her intention. She went off
like a lamb,--and there being no will, her money fell to me, as the
nearest survivin' relative--eh! the puir thing!--if