When the first inquiry as to the cause of Elsie Wray’s death was ended, and the adjournment announced, something which he could not resist drew John Temple to the side of the room where May Churchill and her father were standing.

“Well,” he said, addressing May, “one part at least of a very painful affair for you is over.”

May looked gratefully up in his face.

“Yes, it has been most painful, but I am so very, very sorry for Mr. Wray. I should like to go and shake hands with him, but he has never looked at me,” answered May.

“Still, I think I should go,” advised John; “the feeling that true sympathy is given to us is always grateful.”

“Then I will go.”

The landlord was standing with a stern face and kindling eyes as she approached him. He had just watched the departure of Henderson and his groom, and he believed now that Henderson had, to say the least of it, been the cause of Elsie’s death. He had read the insulting letter the young man had sent her, and with his own tongue he had acknowledged there had been “some talk of a marriage” between them. Deceived and betrayed, the poor girl might have put an end to her own life. But not less did James Wray consider him Elsie’s murderer, and he was vowing vengeance in his heart when May Churchill, with her flower-like face, drew near him and placed her small hand timidly in his.

“Mr. Wray,” she said, and that was all. But the landlord needed not words to tell him of the true feelings of her heart. In that gentle touch, in those beautiful eyes, he read her great sympathy and regret. He felt sure she did not despise nor scorn his dead Elsie, and that her womanly tenderness forgave all her shortcomings. His hard eyes grew dim, and he placed a horny brown hand in her white pretty one.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and turned away to hide his emotion.

John Temple had watched this meeting, and fully appreciated it. Mr. Churchill was busy talking to one of the jurymen, a neighbor, and John once more speedily found himself at May’s side.

“Let us go outside,” he said, and May went. They stood talking together until Mr. Churchill joined them, and Mr. Churchill spoke very cordially to John.

“I want you to come over to Woodside again, Mr. Temple, and try the mare before I send her to the Hall stables,” he said. “When will it be convenient for you to do so? This afternoon?”

“Yes; that will suit me very well,” answered John; and while a few moments later her father went to see after his trap, John had a word to half-whisper into May’s willing ears.

“I will see you again, then,” he said, and May smiled her answer, and as her father drove her back to Woodside, John Temple’s words and looks recurred again and again to her mind.

As for John, he walked back to the Hall, thinking only of her.

“She is the dearest little girl,” he told himself, and he wished the afternoon were already come. But he found when he arrived at his uncle’s house that he was eagerly awaited for, and that he was expected to give a complete account of all that had taken place during the inquest.

The news of Elsie Wray’s tragic death had indeed created an immense sensation in the neighborhood. Young Henderson of Stourton Grange was so well known, and had frequently visited at Woodlea Hall, and when John Temple entered the dining-room he found both Mrs. Temple and her mother, Mrs. Layton, eagerly talking of him.

“Well, here you are at last,” said Mrs. Temple. “Now come and tell us all about it, and what had Tom Henderson to do with it?”

“A good deal, I fear,” answered John, seating himself at the luncheon table.

“But what?” asked Mrs. Temple, sharply.

“By his own account he wrote to the unfortunate girl to ask her to meet him on the ridge above Fern Dene on the night of her death, and he also said there had been some talk of marriage between them.”

“Of marriage!” repeated Mrs. Temple, incredulously, and at the same moment Mrs. Layton emitted a dismal groan.

“He wanted to be out of it; fling her off, I understand,” continued John.

“I should think so,” said Mrs. Temple, scornfully. “A girl of that class!”

“He should have remembered that when he made love to her,” remarked John, coolly.

“The depravity of the girl, to think of such a thing!” cried Mrs. Layton.

“Do you mean of marriage?” smiled John.

“I mean of marriage with a young man in a perfectly different position of life to her own, Mr. Temple,” replied Mrs. Layton, with injured dignity.

“Yet we have heard of such things,” said John.

“There is but one end to such connections,” groaned Mrs. Layton, “disgrace and shame, and in this case death; in my opinion she deserved to die.”

“I do not believe Tom Henderson shot her,” said Mrs. Temple.

“He said in his evidence he never went near the place, and his groom corroborated this. He said he got afraid to go, and that he intended writing to her again to try and make some arrangement. Altogether it is a very shady affair for him,” replied John.

“Other young men have shady affairs, too, Mr. Temple,” said Mrs. Temple, with a toss of her handsome head, and John’s face turned a dusky red as she spoke.

“We can’t all pose as perfection, you know, my nephew John,” continued Mrs. Temple. “For my part I do not intend to give up young Henderson—he is too good-looking.”

“Unless they hang him,” said John.

“Hang him! Impossible.”

“Not at all impossible, I assure you. He will have to prove he was not near the place, or he will run a pretty good chance of it. I did not like the groom’s face; it was shifty, and he gave me the idea he was not speaking the truth.”

“And your own evidence, Mr. Temple?” said Mrs. Layton. “How did you account for your chance meeting with Margaret Churchill at such an early hour?”

“By my love for the morning air, Mrs. Layton,” answered John, smiling.

“Margaret Churchill, in my opinion, is a most designing young person,” continued Mrs. Layton. “Rachel, my love, may I trouble you for a little more of that delicious curry. Yes, a most designing young person. I am told that she did everything to attract young Henderson, and that her father also tried to entangle him, and then when she had led the poor young man on to a certain point, she turned round.”

“I do not believe he ever proposed for her,” said Mrs. Temple. “I suppose you think her handsome?” she added, looking at John.

“I think she has a beautiful face,” answered John, decidedly.

“Beautiful! That’s a strong term,” remarked Mrs. Temple, scornfully.

“Yet it is one I should apply to her.”

“It may account, then, for your early walk, Mr. Temple,” said Mrs. Layton, with a little sneering laugh.

“My meeting with Miss Churchill was simply accidental, Mrs. Layton,” said John, coolly. “Naturally the poor girl, after such a dreadful discovery, stopped the first person she met to tell him of it.”

“But you knew her before?” asked Mrs. Layton.

“I had spoken to her before; I have bought a horse of her father, and I saw her then.”

“A very convenient transaction for the Churchills,” said Mrs. Layton, with a sneer. “She is a person with no idea of her own position in life, I consider. Would you believe it, I went the other day to the farm for the purpose of buying some eggs, and when I asked Margaret Churchill the price, she looked quite offended, and said she did not sell eggs! Fancy a farmer’s daughter not selling eggs! However, she presented me with a few, and I took them.”

“A very convenient transaction for you, Mrs. Layton,” scoffed John, who was getting out of temper, and an angry gleam shot into Mrs. Layton’s light eyes as he spoke.

“I always do what I consider my duty, Mr. Temple,” she said, drawing up her spare little form. “My husband is fond of fresh-laid eggs, and as this misguided young person would not sell them, I had to consider him.”

John made a sarcastic little bow.

“Wifely duty!” he said; and Mrs. Layton always spoke of him after this passage of arms with great bitterness.

“He is a dangerous person,” she remarked later in the day to her daughter. “Mark my words, Rachel, a dangerous, designing person, and I believe he is carrying on, or will carry on, an intrigue with Margaret Churchill, and how would you like that?”

“I hate the whole lot of the Churchills!” answered Mrs. Temple, passionately. “But his uncle will never allow him to carry on an intrigue with this girl.”

“My dear Rachel, you forget that your husband is elderly, and that this young man is his heir,” said Mrs. Layton. “I do not like to speak on unpleasant subjects, but I think it my duty to tell you this, that when at my earnest suggestion your father spoke to the squire about settling the Hall, furniture, and carriages on you for life, after poor little Phillip’s death, that the squire said he had no power to settle the Hall; that it was entailed on the heir.”

“Oh! don’t, don’t, mother!” cried Mrs. Temple, rising in strong excitement, and beginning to pace the room. “I try to forget my darling’s death; try to put it out of my mind, or I think I should go mad, and now you begin to harp on it again. Let everything go; what matter is it when I have lost him!”

“My dear Rachel—”

“It has made me reckless,” continued Mrs. Temple, “and I often wonder now, mother, where it will end. But on the whole I rather like John Temple, and—he must have nothing to do with this Churchill girl. I will speak to Phillip about it. Both those boys played in that fatal game—who knows? one of them may have been my darling’s murderer.”

She burst into passionate sobs as she ended this speech, and her mother saw it was useless to say anything more. When these fits of excitement came over Rachel Temple, no one had the least control over her. She became, as she had said, reckless, and in this mood she continued the whole of the remainder of the day.

In the meanwhile John Temple was against his will being detained by his uncle, who had been out on business in the morning, and only returned to the hall after his wife and Mrs. Layton had left the luncheon table.

The squire, as the ladies had been, was eager to hear all about the inquest, and John, though inwardly impatient to start for Woodside, was obliged to go through the whole details again to his uncle.

It was late in the afternoon when he found himself free, and then he at once proceeded to the farm. But when he arrived there he found Mr. Churchill was from home.

“When will he be back?” he inquired of the neat maid-servant.

But as he spoke, May Churchill, who had been watching for him, came across the hall from the drawing-room.

“My father was obliged to go out at four o’clock, Mr. Temple,” she said in her sweet-toned voice, “but I do not think he will be very long away. Will you come in and have some tea?”

John gladly accepted this invitation. He followed May into the drawing-room, and sat there drinking tea and looking in her fair face. It was a very pretty room, sweet with flowers, and gracefully furnished. Everything seemed to suit the young mistress, and John was half-unconscious how long he stayed there. The shadows began to lengthen, the sun dipped behind the hills, and still he remained. Then presently the moon rose, and still Mr. Churchill had not returned.

“Am I tiring you?” asked John.

“Oh, no,” answered May, with a smile and a blush.

John went across the room, and for a moment stood looking out of the open window at the garden beyond, on which now the cold, white moonbeams fell. May had been leaning there before, and an irresistible impulse seemed to draw him closer to her. It was one of those moments when a strange subtle knowledge comes to two human hearts. He bent his head until it nearly touched the lovely face; he took a little fluttering hand in his.

“Come,” he half-whispered, and led her through the casement which opened from the ground, to the silent dewy garden outside. Pale fantastic shadows lay on flower and leaf, the breeze rustled through the lilac bushes, and stirred the fruit-laden boughs. John forgot everything but the sweet and strong emotion which stirred his heart. He put his arm around the slight girlish form; he drew her to his breast.

“Dear one,” he murmured, and May felt too happy to resist his caress. Her breath came short, her bosom heaved, and her hand lingered tenderly in his.

“Mayflower,” whispered John, “may I call you by that sweet name?”

“Yes,” came fluttering from May’s rosy lips, and the little monosyllable was breathed very near to John’s.

Click went the garden gate at this moment, and the two heard it, and started quickly apart. Then a heavy, determined footstep sounded on the gravel walk, and a second or two later Mr. Churchill appeared. He looked surprised but not displeased to see John Temple with his daughter, and apologized for his absence.

“I waited as long as I could, Mr. Temple,” he said, “but I had some business I was forced to attend to.”

“My uncle delayed me,” answered John, “talking of that unfortunate business; but,” he added, smiling, “Miss Churchill has been very good; she has given me some tea, and the night is so lovely we were taking advantage of it.”

“All right,” answered the farmer, “but come in now and have something to eat. I fear it is too late to go down to the stables.”

“I will come over to-morrow and see the mare,” said John; “but thanks, very much, I can not go in now. Good-night Miss Churchill.”

Mr. Churchill hospitably pressed him to go into the house and have supper with them, but John declined. He felt somehow that he could not eat. He was too much excited, and those brief moments with May had moved him deeply. He had realized for the first time how dear she was to him; he knew now that he felt for her what he had never felt for any woman before.

They shook hands and parted, and John walked home alone in the moonlight. There was a delicious sense of life and love in his heart, and he smiled softly as he went on.

“I think she likes me,” he was thinking; “my little country sweetheart—my country sweetheart.”

He repeated these words to himself again and again. And again and again also he mentally saw the girl’s lovely profile on which the moonlight glimmered as she stood in the window. It was a picture in his mind’s eye which never again faded away. There are such pictures that Time’s hand can not touch. And this was one of them to John Temple; the sweet girlish face glorified by the pale white beams.

When he reached the Hall dinner was over, but we may be sure the heir was not allowed to suffer by this. The butler speedily spread a tempting repast before him, but John did not feel hungry still. He lit a cigar and went out on the terrace, and there his excitement sobered down. Other scenes rose up before him; other hours of passion and love.

“I am a fool,” he reflected; “a girl’s beautiful face has made me feel like a boy.”

In the meanwhile the girl with the beautiful face was receiving a very unpleasant surprise. She had gone into the house to order her father’s supper with a new feeling of joy and radiant hope glowing in her heart.

“He loves me,” was the sweet thought that flushed her smooth cheeks, and made her bright eyes sparkle. May never doubted this after those brief moments in the moonlight. And she felt a modest pride in the thought. That this good-looking well-born gentleman should care for her made her very happy. He was the first man also that she had really liked. So pretty a girl, of course, got admirers on every side. But admiration does not necessarily win love. A woman may feel flattered when her heart is totally untouched.

She ordered her father’s supper therefore with a light heart, and went into the dining-room to share it with him gratified and glad. Mr. Churchill also seemed in fairly good spirits, and ate his food with excellent appetite. Then, when the meal was over, he commenced to smoke, and May was just contemplating leaving the room to indulge in her sweet thoughts alone, when her father looked up and addressed her.

“May, I went to see Mrs. Bradshaw this afternoon,” he said.

“Yes,” answered May, somewhat indifferently, for the subject of Mrs. Bradshaw was very unpleasant to her.

“And we have fixed to be married to-morrow morning,” continued Mr. Churchill, in his quiet, determined way.

“To-morrow morning!” echoed May, utterly surprised.

“Yes, what is the good of waiting? But it is to be quite quiet; she did not wish you even to know until it was over. But you have been a good little daughter to me, and therefore I do not care to keep it a secret from you, and I hope also you will be a good daughter to your new mother.”

May’s face flushed painfully.

“She can never be a mother to me,” she said.

“My dear, that is folly. To-morrow she will be your father’s wife, and will take her place here, of course, as mistress. And I hope you two will get on well together. If you are wise you will do so.”

May did not speak.

“We will only be away for a few days, a week at most, as I shall have to be back, I suppose, for the adjourned inquest. We are going to London, and if you are a good girl I will bring you back a smart gown.”

“But father—to-morrow you agreed—for Mr. Temple to come here.”

“Mr. Temple must wait; I did not like to tell him I was going to be married to-morrow when he proposed to come. I will leave a note for him, and give orders that he can have the mare over on trial whenever he likes. Well, May, come and give me a kiss, and wish me happiness.”

The girl rose up at her father’s bidding and kissed his brow.

“I wish you happiness, father,” she said, in a low, faltering voice, and then she turned away and suddenly left the room.

She went to her own, and stood at the window looking out on the moonlit garden.

“Will this make any difference to him?” she was thinking, and a vague uneasiness stole into her heart.