Myra Ingleby rose and wended her way slowly towards the house.

A stranger meeting her would probably have noticed nothing amiss with the tall graceful woman, whose pallor might well have been due to the unusual warmth of the day.

But the heart within her was dying.

Her joy had received a mortal wound. The man she adored, with a love which had placed him at the highest, was slowly slipping from his pedestal, and her hands were powerless to keep him there.

A woman may drag her own pride in the dust, and survive the process; but when the man she loves falls, then indeed her heart dies within her.

She had loved to call Jim Airth a cowboy. She knew him to be avowedly cosmopolitan. But was he also a slave to vulgar pride? Being plain Jim Airth himself, did he grudge noble birth and ancient lineage to those to whom they rightfully belonged? Professing to scorn titles, did he really set upon them so exaggerated a value, that he would turn from the woman he was about to wed, merely because she owned a title, while he had none?

Myra, entering the house, passed to her sitting-room. Green awnings shaded the windows. The fireplace was banked with ferns and lilies. Bowls of roses stood about; while here and there pots of growing freesias poured their delicate fragrance around.

Myra crossed to the hearthrug and stood gazing up at the picture of Lord Ingleby. The gentle refinement of the scholarly face seemed accentuated by the dim light. Lady Ingleby dwelt in memory upon the consistent courtesy of the dead man’s manner; his unfailing friendliness and equability to all; courteous to men of higher rank, considerate to those of lower; genial to rich and poor alike.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “have I been unfaithful? Have I forgotten how good you were?”

But still her heart died within her. The man who had stalked across the lawn, leaving her without a touch or look, held it in the hollow of his hand.

A dog-cart clattered up to the portico. Men’s voices sounded in the hall. Tramping feet hurried along the corridor. Then Billy’s excited young voice cried, “May we come in?” followed by Ronnie’s deeper tones, “If we shall not be in the way?” The next moment she was grasping a hand of each.

“You dear boys!” she said. “I have never been more glad to see you! Do sit down; or have you come to play tennis?”

“We have come to see you, dear Queen,” said Billy. “We are staying at Overdene. The duchess had your letter. She told us the great news; also, that you were returning yesterday. So we came over to—to——”

“To congratulate,” said Ronald Ingram; and he said it heartily and bravely.

“Thank you,” said Myra, smiling at them, but her sweet voice was tremulous. These first congratulations, coming just now, were almost more than she could bear. Then, with characteristic simplicity and straightforwardness, she told these old friends the truth.

“You dear boys! It is quite sweet of you to come over; and an hour ago, you would have found me radiant. There cannot have been a happier woman in the whole world than I. But, you know, I met him, and we became engaged, while I was doing my very original rest-cure, which consisted chiefly in being Mrs. O’Mara, to all intents and purposes, instead of myself. This afternoon he knows for the first time that I am Lady Ingleby of Shenstone. And, boys, the shock has been too much for him. He is such a splendid man; but a dear delightful cowboy sort of person. He has lived a great deal abroad, and been everything you can imagine that bestrides a horse and does brave things. He finished up at your horrid little war, and got fever at Targai. You must have known him. He calls it ‘a muddle on the frontier,’ and now he is writing a book about it, and about other muddles, and how to avoid them. But he has a quite eccentric dislike to titles and big properties; so he has shied really badly at mine. He has gone off to ‘face it out’ alone. Hence you find me sad instead of gay.”

Billy looked at Ronnie, telegraphing: “Is it? It must be! Shall we tell her?”

Ronnie telegraphed back: “It is! It can be no other. You tell her.”

Lady Ingleby became aware of these crosscurrents.

“What is it, boys?” she said,

“Dear Queen,” cried Billy, with hardly suppressed excitement; “may we ask the cowboy person’s name?”

“Jim Airth,” replied Lady Ingleby, a sudden rush of colour flooding her pale cheeks.

“In that case,” said Billy, “he is the chap we met tearing along to the railway station, as if all the furies were loose at his heels. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor, for that matter, in front of him; and our dog-cart had to take to the path! So he did not see two old comrades, nor did he hear their hail. But he cannot possibly have been fleeing from your title, dear lady, and hardly from your property; seeing that his own title is about the oldest known in Scottish history; while mile after mile of moor and stream and forest belong to him. Surely you knew that the fellow who called himself ‘Jim Airth’ when out ranching in the West, and still keeps it as his nom-de-plume, is—when at home—James, Earl of Airth and Monteith, and a few other names I have forgotten;—the finest old title in Scotland!”