one had said he drank. He watched a row of small birds sitting on the telegraph wires, just outside the station, and all at once the London train came gliding rapidly and unexpectedly out of the cutting close by, and was there.

A hurried rush along the line of carriages, with his heart sinking lower at every step, a despairing glance round, and he perceived the man he came to meet walking off at the further end of the platform. He came up with him as he stopped to speak to a porter.

"Ah! I am in time then?" said Percival, when he looked round in reply to Hardwicke's hurried greeting.

"Yes-thank God! I promised to drive you over to Ashendale at

once."

Percival nodded, and took his place without a word. Not till they were fairly started on their journey did he turn to his companion. "How did it happen?" he asked.

trees.

Hardwicke gave him a brief account of the accident. He listened eagerly, and then just saying, "It's very dreadful," he was silent again. But it was the silence of a man intent on his errand, leaning slightly forward as if drawn by a powerful attraction, and with eyes fixed on the point where he would first see the ruins of Ashendale Priory above the Hardwicke did not venture to speak to him. As the man whom Sissy Langton loved, Percival Thorne was to him the first of men, but, considered from Hardwicke's own point of view, he was a fellow with whom he had little or nothing in common, a man who quoted poetry, and saw all manner of things in pictures and ruins, who went out of his way to think about politics, and was neither Conservative nor Radical when all was done, a man who rather disliked dogs, and took no interest in horses. Hardwicke did not want to speak about dogs, horses, or politics then, but the consciousness of their want of sympathy was in his mind.

As they drove through the village they caught a passing glimpse of a brougham. "Ha! Brackenhill," said Thorne, looking after it. They dashed round a corner, and pulled up in front of the farmhouse. Hardwicke took no pains to spare the noise of their arrival. He knew very well that the sound of wheels would be music to Sissy's ears.

A tall slim figure, which even on that June morning had the air of being wrapped up, passed and repassed in the hall within. As the two young men came up the path, Horace appeared in the porch. Even at that moment the change which a year had wrought in him startled Percival. He was a mere shadow. He had looked ill before, but now he looked as if he were dying.

"She will not see me," he said to Hardwicke. His voice was that of a confirmed invalid, a mixture of complaint and helplessness. He ignored his cousin.

"She will see you now that Percival has come," said Mrs. Middleton, advancing from the background. "She will see you together." And she led the way. Horace went in second, and Percival last, yet

he was the first to meet the gaze of those waiting eyes. The young men stood side by side, looking down at the delicate face on the pillow. It was pale, and seemed smaller than usual, in the midst of the loosened waves of hair. On one side of the forehead there was a dark mark, half wound, half bruise, a mere nothing but for its terrible suggestiveness. But the clear eyes, and the gentle little mouth were unchanged. Horace said, "Oh, Sissy!" and Sissy said "Percival." He could not speak, but stooped and kissed the little hand which lay passively on the coverlet. Whisper," said Sissy. He bent over her. "Have you forgiven him?" she asked.

"Yes." The mere thought of enmity was horrible to him, as he looked into Sissy's eyes, with that spectral Horace by his sile.

"Are you sure? Quite?"

"Before God and you, Sissy."

"Tell him so, Percival."

He stood up, and turned to his cousin. held out his hand. The other put a thin hot Sissy," said Percival. "We are friends."

"Horace?" he said, and hand into it. "See here,

"Has it vexed you, Sissy?

"Yes, we're friends," Horace repeated. I thought you didn't care about me. I'm sorry, dear; I'm very sorry." Aunt Harriet, standing by, laid her hand on his arm. She had held aloof for that long year, feeling that he was in the wrong. He had not acted as a Thorne should, and he could never be the same to her as in old days. But she had wanted her boy, nevertheless, right or wrong, and since Percival had pardoned him, and since it was partly Godfrey's hardness that had driven him into deceit, and since he was so ill, and since and since she loved him, she drew his head down to her, and kissed him. Horace was weak, and he had to turn his face away, and wipe his eyes. But, relinquishing Percival's hand, he held Aunt

Harriet's.

Percival stooped again, in obedience to a sign from Sissy. "Ask him to forgive me," she said.

"He knows nothing, dear."

"Ask him for me."

"Horace," said Percival, "Sissy wants your forgiveness."

"I've nothing to forgive," said Horace. "It is I who ought to ask to be forgiven. It was hard on me when first you came to Brackenhill, Percy; but it has been harder on you since. I hardly know what I said or did that day. I thought you'd been plotting against me."

66

No-no," said Sissy. "Not he."

66 No, but I did think so. Since then I've felt that, anyhow, it was not fair. I suppose I was too proud to say so, or hardly knew how, especially as the wrong is past mending. But I do ask your pardon now."

"You have it," said Percival. "We didn't understand each other very well."

"But I never blamed you, Sissy; never, for one moment. I wasn't so bad as that. I've watched for you now and then in Fordborough streets, just to get a glimpse as you went by. I thought it was you who would never forgive me, because of Percival."

"He has forgiven," said Sissy. But her eyes still sought Percival's.

"Look here, Horace," he said. "There was a misunderstanding you knew nothing of, and Sissy feels that she might have cleared it up. It was cleared up at last, but I think it altered my grandfather's manner to you for a time. If you wish to know the whole, I will tell you. But since it is all over and done with, and did not really do you any harm, if you like best"-he looked steadily at Horace" that we should forgive and forget on both sides, we will bury the past here to-day."

"Yes-yes," said Horace. "Sissy may have made a mistake, but she never meant me any harm, I know."

"Don't-don't! Oh, Horace, I did-but I am sorry."

"God knows I forgive you, whatever it was," he said.
"Kiss me, Horace."

He stooped and kissed her, as he had kissed her many a time, when she was his little pet and playmate. She kissed him back again, and smiled. "Good-by, Horry!"

66

Mrs. Middleton interposed. "This will be too much for her," she said. Percival, she wants you, I see-be careful." And she drew Horace gently away.

Percival sat down by the bedside. Presently Sarah came in, and went to the further end of the room, waiting, in case she should be wanted. Sissy was going to speak once, but Percival stopped her : "Lie still a little while, dear-I'm not going away."

She lay still, looking up at this Percival for whom she had watched and waited through the dreary night, and who had come to her with the morning. And he, as he sat by her side, was thinking how, at that time the day before, he was in the office at Brenthill. He could hardly believe that less than twenty-four hours had given him the assurance of Judith's love, and brought him to Sissy's death-bed. He was in a strangely exalted state of mind. His face was calm, as if cast in bronze, but a crowd of thoughts and feelings contended for the mastery beneath it. He had eaten nothing since the night before, and had not slept, but his excitement sustained him.

He met Sissy's eyes, and smiled tenderly. How was it that he had frightened her in old days? Could he ever have been cruel to one so delicate and clinging? Yet he must have been, since he had driven away her love. She was afraid of him; she had begged to be free. Well, the past was past; but at least no word nor look of his should frighten or grieve the poor child now.

After a time, she spoke. "You have worked too hard. Isn't that you wanted to do something great?"

"That isn't at all likely," said Percival, with a melancholy smile.

"I'm all right, Sissy."

"No-you are pale. You wanted to surprise us. Oh, I guessed! Godfrey Hammond didn't tell me.

have waited to see it."

"Don't talk so," he entreated.

I should have been glad if I could

"There will be nothing to see."

"You mustn't work too hard-promise," she whispered.

"No, dear, I won't."

"Percival, will you be good to me?"

"If I can, I will indeed. What can I do?" "I want you to have my money. It is my own, and I have nobody." Sissy remembered the terrible mistake she had once made, and wanted an assurance from his own lips that her gift was accepted.

Percival hesitated for a moment, and even the moment's hesitation alarmed her. It was true, as she said, that she had nobody, and her words opened a golden gateway before Judith and himself. Should he tell her of that double joy and double gratitude? He believed that she would be glad; but it seemed selfish and horrible to talk of love and marriage by that bedside. "I wish you might live to need it all yourself, dear," he answered, and laid his hand softly on hers. The strip of embroidery caught his eye. "What's this?" he said in blank surprise. 66 And your thimble! Sissy, you mustn't bother yourself about this work now." He would have drawn it gently away.

The fingers closed on it suddenly, and the weak voice panted—" No! Percival! That was before we were engaged. You spoilt

my other."

It's mine.

"O God!" he said. In a moment it all came back to him. He remembered the summer day at Brackenhill-Sissy and he upon the terrace-the work-box upset, and the thimble crushed beneath his foot. He remembered her pretty reproaches, and their laughter over her enforced idleness. He remembered how he rode into Fordborough, and bought that little gold thimble-the first present he ever made her. All his gifts during their brief engagement had been scrupulously returned; but this, as she had said, was given before. And she was dying with it in her hand. She had loved him from first to last.

Percival, you will take my money?" she pleaded, fearing some incomprehensible scruple.

"For God's sake, Sissy! I must think a moment." He buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, you are cruel!" she whispered.

How could he think?

Sissy loved him-had always loved him. It was all plain to him now. He had been blind; and he had come back to find out the truth, the day after he had pledged himself to Judith

Lisle.

"Don't be unkind to me, Percival; I can't bear it, dear."

How could he stab her to the heart by a refusal of that which he so

sorely needed? How could he tell her of his engagement? How could he keep silence, and take her money, to spend it with Judith?

66

Say 'Yes,' Percival. It is mine. Why not? why not?"

He spoke through his clasped hands: "One moment more. "I shall never ask you anything again," she whispered. "Oh, Percival, be good to me!"

He raised his head and looked earnestly at her. happen what might.

66

He must be true,

Sissy, God knows I thank you for your goodness. I shan't forget it, living or dying. If only you might be spared

"No-no. Say 'yes,' Percival.”

"I will say 'yes' if, when I have done, you wish it still. But it must be 'yes' for some one besides myself. Dear, don't give it to me to make amends in any way. You have not wronged me, Sissy. Don't give it to me, dear, unless you give it to Judith Lisle."

As he spoke he looked into her eyes. Their sweet entreaty gave place to a flash of pained reproach, as if they said, "So soon?" Then the light in them wavered, and went out. Percival sprang up. "Help - she has fainted!"

Sarah hurried from her post by the window, and the sound of quick footsteps brought back Mrs. Middleton. The young man stood aside, dismayed. "She isn't dead?" he said in a low voice.

Aunt Harriet did not heed him. A horrible moment passed, during which he felt himself a murderer. Then Sissy moaned, and turned her

face a little to the wall.

"Go now-she cannot speak to you," said Mrs. Middleton.
"I can't. Only one more word!"

"What do you mean? What have you done? You may wait outside, and I will call you. She cannot bear any more now-do you want

to kill her outright?"

He went. There was a wide window-seat in the passage, and he dropped down upon it, utterly worn out and wretched. "What have I done?" he asked himself. "What made me do it? She loved me and I have been a brute to her. If I had been a devil, could I have tortured her more?"

Presently Mrs. Middleton came to him. but she is better."

"She cannot see you now,

He looked up at her as he sat. "Aunt Harriet, I meant it for the best. Say what you like I was a brute, I suppose, but I thought I was doing right."

"What do you mean?" Her tone was gentler. She detected the misery in his.

Percival took her hand and laid it on his forehead. "You can't think I meant to be cruel to our Sissy," he said. "You will let me speak to her?" She softly pushed back his hair. After all, he was the man Sissy loved. "What was it?" she asked, "what did you do?"