The project of going to town, however, was not carried out. Miss Payne caught a severe cold, owing to the unusual circumstance of having forgotten her umbrella, and, in consequence, getting wet through by a sudden heavy shower.

Instead, therefore, of speeding London-wards on Monday, Miss Payne spent the weary hours in bed with a racking headache and Katherine in close attendance.

Next day, however, she was considerably better, and even talked of coming downstairs in the evening when the house was shut up. She insisted on sending her kind nurse out for air and exercise, as she was looking pallid and heavy-eyed; nor was Katherine reluctant to go, for she enjoyed being alone to meditate on the curious interweaving of fate's warp and woof which had made Rachel the means of reconciliation between George Liddell and herself. She ought now to take up her life again with courage and energy. The boys provided for, she had nothing to fear, while, if the future held out no brilliant prospect of personal happiness, much quiet content probably lay in the humble sufficiency which was now hers. The interest she would take in the careers of Cis and Charlie would renew her youth, and keep her in touch with active life, while, as the impression of her various troubles wore away under the swift-flowing stream of time, she would feel more and more the restful excellence of peace. It was not a bad outlook, yet Katherine felt sad as she contemplated it. Finding her self-commune less cheering than she anticipated, she turned her steps homeward, and entered the house through the window of the drawing-room which opened on a rustic veranda. Coming from strong sunlight into comparative darkness, she took off her hat, and pushed back her hair from her brow before she perceived that a gentleman had risen from the chair where he sat reading.

"You see I have dared to take possession of the premises in your absence," he said.

"Mr. Errington?" cried Katherine, her heart suddenly bounding, and then beating so violently she could hardly speak. "How—where—did you come from?"

"From London, to enjoy a brief breathing-space from pressure of work—welcome as it generally is! I am sorry to find that your friend Miss Payne is invalided, as she was not visible, I ventured to wait for you."

"I am very glad to see you," returned Katherine, placing herself on the sofa as far from the window as she could, for she felt herself changing color in a provoking way.

"I saw Mrs. Needham yesterday, who gave me your address and sundry messages, one to the effect that she hopes to pay you a visit next Saturday; the rest I do not remember accurately, for she was much excited and not very distinct."

"We shall be delighted to see her, she is so bright and sympathetic. What was the immediate cause of her excitement?"

"The marriage of Miss Bradley in about a fortnight."

"Indeed!" cried Katherine, thinking this way of announcing it rather odd, but never doubting it was his own marriage also. "Then accept my warm congratulations; you have no well-wisher more sincere than myself."

Errington looked up surprised.

"Why do you congratulate me? I certainly was of some use in bringing it about, but sooner or later they would certainly have married."

"They? who—whom is she going to marry?"

"My old friend Major Urquhart. It is a very old attachment, but Mr. Bradley objected to his want of fortune; then, as Bradley's wealth increased, Urquhart felt reluctant to come forward again. Accident revealed the state of the case to me. I went to see Urquhart, who had just returned from India, and was in Edinburgh. I persuaded him to return with me, and once the lovers met, matters swiftly arranged themselves. Finally, Bradley gave his consent. Now the air is resonant with the coming chime of wedding bells."

"I am greatly surprised," said Katherine, and it was some minutes before she could speak again. Her horizon seemed suddenly suffused with light; she felt dizzy with a strange delightful glow, and confused with a sense of shame at her own unreasoning, irrational joy. What difference could Errington's marriage or no marriage make to her?

"I suppose," resumed Errington, after looking earnestly at her speaking face, "that the intimacy which arose between Mr. Bradley and myself in consequence of my connection with The Cycle suggested the rumor of my engagement with his daughter; but no such idea ever entered my head or Angela's. You know, I suppose, I am now de facto editor of The Cycle. It is a good appointment, and enables me to hope for possibilities, though I dare not say probabilities."

"I am sure you will be an admirable editor," said Katherine, pulling herself together, and trying to speak lightly.

"Why?" asked Errington, smiling.

"You are just, and—and careful, and must be a good judge of the subjects such a periodical treats of."

"Thank you." He paused; then, looking down, he continued, "Mrs. Needham tells me you have been troubled about your nephews."

"Yes, I was very much troubled, but I think they are safe and well now; later I should put them to a better school, as I now hope to do." She stopped to think how she should best explain George Liddell's unexpected generosity, and Errington exclaimed.

"These boys are a heavy charge to you! yet I suppose you could not bring yourself to give them up?"

"How could I? their mother can really do nothing for them, and it would be cruel to hand them over to Colonel Ormonde's charity."

"It would! you are right," said Errington, hastily. "Poor little fellows! to lose you would be too terrible a trial for them."

Katherine raised her eyes to his; they were moist with gratitude for his sympathy, and seemed to draw him magnetically to her. He changed his place to the sofa; leaning one arm on the back, he rested his head on his hand, and looked gravely down upon her.

"Will you forgive me if I ask an intrusive question? You know we agreed to be friends, yet our friendship does not seem to thrive, it is dying of starvation because we so rarely meet; still, for the sake of our shadowy friendship, answer me: may I put the natural construction on De Burgh's sudden departure from England?"

Katherine hesitated; she did not like to say in so many words that she had refused him, a curious, half-remorseful feeling made her especially considerate towards him.

"I do not like to speak of Lord de Burgh," she said at length.

"When does he return?

"I do not know. I know nothing of his plans."

"Then you sent him empty away?" said Errington, smiling.

"I very nearly married him!" she exclaimed, frankly. "He was kind and generous, and would have been good to the boys; but at last I could not. Oh! I could not!"

"I am sorry for De Burgh," said Errington, thoughtfully, "but you were right; your wisdom is more of the heart than the head. Do you remember that day (how vividly I remember it!) when you came to me and told me your strange story? It was the turning-point of my life. When I confessed I knew nothing of the deep, warm, tender affection that actuated you, you said that for me wisdom was from one entrance quite shut out."

"I can remember nothing clearly of that dreadful day, only that you were very forgiving and good," returned Katherine, pressing her hands together to still their trembling.

"Well, from the moment you spoke those words, the light of the wisdom you meant dawned upon me, and grew stronger and brighter, till my whole being was flooded with the love you inspired. You opened a new world to me; your voice was always in my ears, your eyes looking into mine." He spoke in a low, earnest, but composed tone, as if he had made up his mind to the fullest utterance. Katherine covered her face with her hands with the unconscious instinct to hide the emotion she felt it would express. "Many things kept me silent. Fear that the sight of me was painful to you; the dread of seeming to seek your fortune; my own uncertain position. Then, when all was taken from you, and I was by my own act deprived of the power to help you, you were so brave and patient that profound esteem mingled with the strange, sweet, wild fire you had kindled! Am I so painfully associated in your mind that you cannot give me something of the wealth of love stored in your heart? You have taught me what love is, will you not reward so apt a pupil?"

"Mr. Errington," said Katherine, letting him take her cold trembling hand, "is it possible you can love and trust a woman who has acted a lie for years as I have?"

"I cannot help both loving and trusting you, utterly," he returned, holding her hand tenderly in both his own. "I believe in your truth as I believe in the reality of the sun's light, and if you can love me I believe I can make you happy. I have but a humble lot to offer you, yet I think it is—it will be a tranquil and secure one. I can help you in bringing up those boys, I will never quarrel with you for clinging to them, and will do the best I can for them! You know I have a creditor's claim; Roman law gave the debtor over into the hands of the creditor," continued Errington, growing bolder as he felt how her hand trembled in his grasp; "you must pay me by the surrender of yourself, by accepting a life for a life. Katherine——"

"Ah! how can I answer you? If indeed you can trust and respect me, I can and will love you well," she exclaimed, with the sweet frankness which always enchanted him.

"Will you love me with the whole unstinted love of your rich nature? I cannot spare a grain," said Errington, jealously.

"But I do love you," murmured Katherine; "I am almost frightened at loving you so much."

Could it be cold, composed, immovable Errington who strained her so closely to his heart, whose lips clung so passionately to hers?

"I have a great deal to tell you," began Katherine, when she had extricated herself and recovered some composure. "But I must go and see poor Miss Payne; she will wonder what has become of me."

"Tell her you are obliged to talk to me of business, and come back soon. I have much to consult you about, and I can only remain till to-morrow evening—do not stay away."

And Katherine returned very soon.

"Miss Payne is dreadfully puzzled," she said, smiling and blushing, quivering in every vein with the strange, almost awful happiness which overwhelmed her.

"Now, what have you to tell me?" asked Errington, and she gave him a full description of George Liddell's visit and proposal to provide for Cis and Charlie.

Errington was too happy to heed the details much, he only remarked that he was glad Liddell had come to his right mind.

"I want you to tell Miss Payne as soon as possible our new plans; she is coming downstairs this evening, you say? Let me break the news to her. I think she will give us her blessing; and, Katherine, my sweet Katherine, there is no reason to delay our marriage. You have no fixed home; the sooner you make one for yourself and me the better. The idea is intoxicating. Our poverty sets us free from the trammels of conventionality; we have nothing to wait for."

So they were married.

Here ought to come "Finis!" yet real life had only begun for them. Were they happy? Yes. For under the wild sweetness of warmest passionate love lay the lasting rock of comprehension and genial companionship. Fuller knowledge brought deeper esteem, and the only secret Katherine ever kept from her husband was the true history of Rachel Trant.

A severe attack of fever, brought on by overstudy, immediately after Katherine's marriage, prevented Bertie Payne from carrying out his missionary scheme. He was reluctantly obliged to put up with the East-End heathen, "who," as Miss Payne observed, "were bad enough to satisfy the largest appetite for sinners."

There his faithful sister established herself to make a home for him, renouncing her comfortable West-End abode, and finding ample interest in the pursuits she affected to treat as fads.

"Altogether everything has turned out in the most extraordinary and unexpected manner," as Mrs. Ormonde observed to Mrs. Needham, whom she encountered at one of Lady Mary Vincent's receptions. "Katherine seems quite proud to settle down in a suburban villa away in St. John's Wood as Mrs. Errington, while she might have made a figure at court as Lady de Burgh. By the way, I see your friend, Mrs. Urquhart, was presented at the last drawing-room."

"Yes, and was one of the handsomest women there.—But I don't suppose Mrs. Errington ever gives a thought to drawing-room or Buckingham Palace balls.—You see she is in a way always at court, for her king is always beside her," returned Mrs. Needham, with a becoming smile. "Good-night, Mrs. Ormonde."

THE END