caused by the carelessness of some newspaper correspondent or by the coincidence of a similarity

of names. It might be that the murderer had no right to the name at all, but had given it as an alias at the moment of arrest, as she had heard they sometimes did. It was probably a mere chance that this man had chosen the name that meant so much to her. had been premature. What if Jack knew nothing of this wild report? He would think the words "unbounded confidence" quite superfluous. There had never been any question between them of a possibility of distrust.

Perhaps her cable

On her return from the ride, her family were grateful to see the renewal of her joyous spirits. It had been no surprise that she took the news of the morning to heart. One of Merry's strong characteristics was loyalty to her friends, and the friendship between herself and Jack Morris, that had apparently ended with his departure to foreign shores, was never believed by her father or sisters to have changed an iota. She was sure to champion his cause, if indeed he ever stood in need of championship. After tea, which was the most sociable hour in that home circle, the Rector called Merry to read to him in his study, and for a quiet hour she gave her mind

wholly to the profound and somewhat dry subject upon which he was then engaged.

Perhaps it is a help to those who are very much alive to the all-important and momentous present, to be carried back into the great past. When we gaze in thought upon the mighty cities that once existed, throbbing with life, crowded with masses of humanity, all concerned with their life of the present, as we are to-day; when we re-visit the teeming marts of commerce, count their vast treasure, survey their conquering armies, and know them now forgotten, obliterated, buried beneath the unmarked sands of a desert, our own small concerns look very insignificant and our little life very transitory in the great onrush of the mighty universe. Only the padded foot-fall of the sneaking jackal, or the screech of an owl amid the ruins, disturbs the stillness of their death and oblivion. That which was, and is, and will be, transpires under the guidance of mighty, inexorable Law, quite independent of our brief life, our little heartaches, our advent or departure. Time passed unnoticed in the quiet study. A cool evening breeze gently swayed the curtains of the long French window. The Rector began to

nod drowsily in his chair.

Muriel was enjoying

the very exercise and rhythm of her voice, for she

had inherited her father's musical tones and they somehow harmonised, in her own ears, with the cooing of wood-doves in the old fir-tree, as they said good-night to the setting sun.

She

The peal of the front door bell, then a knock on the study door, broke into the peaceful monotony all too harshly. It was to Muriel, not to her father, that the message had come, and colour blazed in her cheeks as she held in her hand the cablegram that must surely prove to be momentous in her life, whatever its contents. hesitated, loath to open the yellow envelope, and yet vividly conscious of her father's eyes upon her face and his bushy grey eyebrows raised in question. Her hand was steady, her heart beat strong and brave, and her eyes looked straight into his as she said: "Excuse me, Papa. I think this is from Jack Morris. May I open it?"

The Rector had one very good characteristic, among the many that marked him as a great man. He rarely asked questions. He could wait, knowing that his calm attitude of expectancy brought the answer to his unspoken thought, often, more quickly than urgent question or hurried demand could do. That his mind was asking questions, that this little yellow envelope had fluttered into his quiet study to bring news of

a surprising character, was very manifest by the atmosphere of tension and suspense that all at once seemed to pervade the room. The buzz of the bees in the honeysuckle beyond the window, the tick-tock of the old clock, the flutter of the window curtains, the rustle of the telegram, were all painfully acute to those two-father and daughter-so alike in their self-control and repression of emotions, and yet both of them so keenly sensitive to the crisis that was upon them. Muriel might have read the short message three or four times over, she held it so long open before unseeing eyes. When the words made themselves intelligible to her brain, she drew a deep breath and handed the message to her father. He read these words: "Your love and confidence unspeakably precious. Sure of acquittal. Don't come. -Jack."

THE

dreamer, a deeply devout ecclesiastic, but he was also a cultured gentleman and a tender father. He had those chivalric instincts and thoughtful courtesies of manner that do not come with cultivation or education alone, but are the birthright of those well born and unspoiled by modern society. People spoke of him with a smile as being of the "old school," and referred to his "Chesterfieldian" manners, and yet it was just this courtesy that made so many in need and sorrow, and not a few conscience-stricken through wrong-doing, turn to him for aid and advice. The off-hand manner, slangy brusqueness, or boorish indifference of most Englishmen makes one regret the passing of the "gentlemen of the old school," but on the right side of the ocean, be it the descendant of Puritan or Cavalier or the sturdy product of Western plains, the men of