decaying
heather-roots, down before the mad rush of the wind-god's army, who
roared and shouted in glee, with a voice that shook the hills and called
upon the elements to laugh and rejoice.

And the widowed partridge out upon the moor, creeping closer to the lee
side of his tuft of moss, cried out in his pain, not because of the fury
of the blast, but because of the heart that was breaking under the
little shivering body for the dead mate, who had meant so much of life
and happiness to him--cried with an ache in every cry, and the heart of
the man responded in his great, overpowering grief.

CHAPTER XV

PETER MAKES A DECISION

Peter Rundell often wondered what had become of Mysie. For a day or two
after the evening of the day of the games, he had shunned the
possibility of meeting her, because of the shame that filled his heart.

His face burned when his thoughts went back to the evening in the grove
on the moor. He wondered how it had all happened. He had not meant
anything wrong when he suggested the walk. He could not account for what
had occurred, and so he pondered and his shame rankled.

Then an uneasy feeling took possession of him and he felt he would like
to see Mysie.

A week slipped away and he tried to find a way of coming in contact with
her, but no real chance ever presented itself.

A fortnight passed and he grew still more uneasy. He grew anxious and
there was a hot fear pricking at his heart. Then at last, one day he
caught a glimpse of her, and his heart was smitten with dread.

She was changed. Her appearance was altered. She was thinner, much
thinner and very white and listless. The old air of gayety and bubbling
spirits was gone. Her step seemed to drag, instead of the bright patter
her feet used to make; and his anxiety increased and finally he decided
that he must talk with her.

There was something wrong and he wanted to know what it was. He tried to
make an excuse for seeing her alone but no chance presented itself, and
another week went past and he grew desperate. Then luck almost threw her
into his arms one day in the hall.

"Mysie," he whispered, "there is something I want to discuss with you.
Meet me in the grove to-night about ten. I must see you. Will you come?"

She nodded and passed on, not daring to raise her eyes, her face flaming
suddenly into shame, and the color leaving it again, gave her a deeper
pallor; and so he had to be content with that.

All day he was