ing sentiment of pity or love for Aspatria, but he
realized very clearly what suspicion, what the slant eye, the
whispered word, the scornful glance, the doubtful shrug, meant in
those primitive valleys. And he had loved the girl dearly; he had
promised to marry her. If she wished him to keep his promise, if it
was a necessity to her honour, then he would redeem with his own
honour his foolish words. He told himself constantly that he had not a
particle of fear, that he despised Will and Brune Anneys and their
brutal vows of vengeance; but--but perhaps they did unconsciously
influence him. Life was sweet to Ulfar Fenwick, full of new dreams and
hopes set in all kinds of new surroundings. For Aspatria Anneys why
should he die? It was better to marry her. The girl had been sweet to
him, very sweet! After all, he was not sure but he preferred that she
should be so bound to him as to prevent her marrying any other man. He
still liked her well enough to feel pleasure in the thought that he
had put her out of the reach of any future lover she might have.

Squire Anneys rode home in what Brune called "a pretty temper for any
man." His horse was at the last point of endurance when he reached
Seat-Ambar, he himself wet and muddy, "cross and unreasonable beyond
everything." Aspatria feared the very sound of his voice. She fled to
her room and bolted the door. At that hour she felt as if death would
be the best thing for her; she had brought only sorrow and trouble and
apprehended disgrace to all who loved her.

"I think God has forgotten me too!" she cried, glancing with eyes full
of anguish to the pale Crucified One hanging alone and forsaken in the
darkest corner of the room. Only the white figure was visible; the
cross had become a part of the shadows. She remembered the joyous,
innocent prayers that had been wont to make peace in her heart and
music on her lips; and she looked with a sorrow that was almost
reproach at her Book of Common Prayer, lying dusty and neglected on
its velvet cushion. In her rebellious, hopeless grief, she had missed
all its wells of comfort. Oh, if an angel would only open her eyes!
One had come to Hagar in the desert: Aspatria was almost in equal
despair.

Yet when she heard her brother Will's voice she knew not of any other
sanctuary than the little table which held her Bible and Prayer Book,
and upon which the wan, sad ivory Christ looked down. In speechless
misery, with clasped hands and low-b