The next time that May saw John Temple was at the adjourned inquest on the death of Elsie Wray. They both then simply repeated their former evidence, and the only fresh witness on the occasion was Mrs. Henderson.

In faltering and broken words the unhappy mother told what she knew to be untrue. Her son had only been out for a very short time on the night of Miss Wray’s death, she said, and he had returned to the house much earlier than usual. He said he had just been down to the stables, and spoke about the horses.

“Did you know of any engagement existing between your son and Miss Wray?” asked the coroner.

“No, I did not,” truthfully replied Mrs. Henderson.

She was then questioned as to the time of Tom Henderson’s return to the house, but, though very nervous, she had carefully prepared her story. If her evidence and the evidence of the groom, Jack Reid, were true, it was impossible that Henderson could have been in the neighborhood of Fern Dene. At all events the jury gave him the benefit of the doubt. They returned a verdict that Elsie Wray had destroyed her own life when in a state of temporary insanity, and though every one in the room believed that this condition of mind had been brought on by the conduct of young Henderson, there were some ready to blame the poor girl for her folly in fixing her affections on a man so superior in rank to herself.

Among these was Mr. Churchill of Woodside, and after the inquest was over, as Henderson was handing his mother into the dog-cart, Mr. Churchill, in passing to seek his own trap, held out his hand to Henderson, and then to Mrs. Henderson, who was trembling visibly. He only said a word or two about the weather, but his manner showed a certain amount of sympathy and kindness which was very welcome to both mother and son.

May Churchill, on the other hand, who was following her father, passed them with downcast eyes. She scarcely, indeed, noticed them. A moment or two before she had had a brief interview with John Temple, and he had slipped a note into her hand, and she was thinking of this note and of his words, and not of the Hendersons.

“I have come to say good-by,” John Temple had said, in a low tone, clasping her hand and leaving the note there at the same time; “this will explain.”

“When—” began May, much agitated.

“To-day,” replied John, who understood, and answering her unspoken question, “but—I will not forget.”

Not another word was exchanged between them. Mr. Churchill called to his daughter to come to him, and several people were around them, but May saw no one, and heard no words but John’s. He did not follow her to her father’s dog-cart, but he stood watching her as her father helped her in, and when May turned to look at him he lifted his hat.

Thus they parted, and May went back to Woodside feeling both agitated and depressed. But she had her letter! With this firmly clasped in her hand she sprang from the dog-cart and ran upstairs to her own room without waiting to speak to her stepmother, who was standing in the hall to receive her husband.

When May reached her room she tore open John’s letter with trembling fingers, and read the following words, failing at the time to comprehend their full meaning:

“My Dear May—Sweet Mayflower: I am writing this because I think it right to do so; I am going away because I also think it right. I want you, in my absence, fully to comprehend your feelings toward me. If two people truly love each other I think nothing should separate them, but in the mutual attraction between men and women there is much which is not the love that can not change.

“Dear child, dear sweetheart! you are so much younger than I am that I must warn you against myself. I am world-worn, and until I met you I could not have believed that such a deep, tender, and passionate affection as I feel for you could have arisen in my heart. Yet this is so, but, on the other hand, there are strong and powerful reasons to keep us apart. You must make your own decision when I return. In the meantime believe that I love you, and that I am ready to sacrifice much for your love.

”John Temple.”

May read and re-read this letter, and could not quite follow its drift. She naturally thought that the strong and powerful reasons to keep them apart were social ones. His uncle, of course, would naturally object to his heir marrying the daughter of one of his tenants.

“But he loves me,” May whispered softly to herself; “and I love him, and will sacrifice anything for his sake—mine is the love that can not change.”

But her sweet dream was speedily interrupted. Her stepmother’s loud voice was heard calling to her on the stairs:

“May! dinner is ready; come down at once.”

May had still her hat and cape on, and it took her a few minutes to divest herself of these, but when she went into the dining-room she found her stepmother had not waited for her. Mrs. Churchill was sitting carving a large boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and she looked at May with her bright dark eyes disapprovingly as she entered the room.

“You are late for dinner, May,” she said, sharply. May made no answer. She sat down at the table, but the two thick slices of boiled mutton that her stepmother handed her was impossible food for her. In fact she could not eat it, and played with a little potato.

“Why are you not eating your mutton?” asked Mrs. Churchill.

“I do not like boiled mutton,” replied May, smiling.

“Not like excellent boiled mutton! Then what do you like? I did not know you were such a dainty eater as that.”

“May never eats very much,” said her father, kindly enough; “you like birds best, don’t you, May?”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” answered May.

“It’s impossible to have birds every day,” remarked her stepmother, decidedly, and then nothing more was said on the subject, and May went without her dinner, for which, however, she did not care.

But she did care about her stepmother’s constant interference. She had been accustomed to be her own mistress for years; to go out when it pleased her, and to read or write just as it took her fancy. Now Mrs. Churchill wished to change all this. She insisted on her going out shopping with herself; she found fault with her dress; and when she read, said she was wasting her time.

May tried for her father’s sake to put up with all this, but it was very annoying; then the two boys, Willie and Hal, returned home, and Mrs. Churchill tried to manage them also. Willie, who was a spoilt, rather passionate boy, was furious, but Hal suggested that as she kept the key of the jam closet, they had better be civil.

Then another disturbing element arose in the household for May. This was no less than the renewal of Tom Henderson’s now most unwelcome attentions. Henderson’s passion for her had by no means diminished in the changed circumstances of his life. Nay, he told himself that it was for her sake that he had acted as he had done. And taking advantage of Mr. Churchill’s known love for making a good bargain, he arrived at Woodside one day under the excuse that he wanted to buy a horse.

Mr. Churchill received the would-be purchaser quite civilly. And Henderson gave a long price for a very ordinary animal. Mr. Churchill was so pleased that he invited the young man into the house to have a glass of wine, and Henderson was only too delighted to avail himself of the chance of once more seeing May.

And he did see her, and also her stepmother. Mrs. Churchill was a shrewd woman, and her sharp, dark eyes speedily perceived that Henderson was deeply in love with May. He sat with his handsome dark eyes fixed on her fair face during the whole time he was in the room, and after he was gone Mrs. Churchill made particular inquiries about him.

“So,” she said, “this is the young man, is he, for whose sake that foolish girl at the Wayside Inn shot herself?”

“I have no doubt he behaved very badly to her,” replied May.

“How can you possibly tell that, my dear? A girl in her position could not expect him to marry her; he is a very nice, fine-looking young man. Does he often come here?”

“He used to come a great deal,” said May, coldly, and then she left the room, but Mrs. Churchill did not forget the subject.

“William,” she said, the same night to her husband, “do you know I believe that young Henderson admires May extremely?”

“I used to think so too,” answered Mr. Churchill, who was smoking his pipe complacently, and thinking of the good bargain he had made in the morning; “but it’s rather an awkward business, about that girl.”

“Oh, that will soon be forgotten, and I think it would be a remarkably good match for May, don’t you?”

Mr. Churchill gave one or two more puffs at his pipe before he answered.

“Stourton is nice property,” he said, at length.

“Yes, and he’s a nice-looking young man, suitable in age and everything, and girls are far better married young. I would encourage him to come here if I were you.”

But Henderson needed very little encouragement to go to Woodside. He began to do so from the day he had bought the horse, and he made very little secret of what was his attraction, and after awhile Mrs. Churchill made up her mind to bring the affair to a conclusion.

“May,” she said, quietly, after one of Henderson’s visits, “I think there is no doubt what that young man comes here for.”

May did not reply. She had always been very cold and distant to Henderson since Elsie Wray’s death, but she also knew very well the reason why he came to Woodside.

“Both your father and I think it would be an excellent match for you,” continued her stepmother.

“Nothing would induce me to marry him,” answered May, quickly and sharply, and Mrs. Churchill saw a hot flush rise to her lovely skin.

“My dear, it is folly to talk in that way. Girls in these things must be guided by their elders, their parents. I married before I was your age, and I married because my father and mother wished me to do so, not that I was what is called in love with poor Mr. Jones. He, however, made me an excellent husband, and left me in comfortable circumstances. Mr. Henderson is well off, and it is your duty to your father to accept him, as, of course, your keep is a great expense to him.”

“Has my father complained of the expense I am to him?” asked May, angrily.

“He has not absolutely complained, but he is naturally anxious that you should settle and marry well. He was speaking to me about it only yesterday. He is not a rich man, and has, of course, many expenses. We both think young Henderson is the very man for you, and as he has a nice, independent property, it is an exceedingly good match.”

“I will never marry him,” repeated May; “please do not mention this again.”

But Mrs. Churchill did mention it again. She dwelt on it. It became her pet subject of conversation, and on one occasion when May was out, she—as she expressed it—“sounded” Mr. Henderson on his intentions toward her stepdaughter.

The young man did not require a second hint.

“I would give anything to marry her, Mrs. Churchill,” he said, “but May gives me no opportunity of speaking to her alone; she has changed to me since—”

A strange pallor spread over Henderson’s handsome face as he left his sentence incomplete, and Mrs. Churchill instantly observed this.

“Since that poor girl committed suicide, I suppose you mean?” she said, calmly. “It was an unfortunate occurrence, no doubt, but one that I think no sensible woman could blame you for. You could not be expected to marry her.”

Henderson gave a kind of gasp.

“I am glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Churchill,” he said, “but perhaps May—”

“Oh, May will get over it. Come and have tea with us to-morrow, Mr. Henderson, and I will give you the opportunity of speaking to May alone.”

Henderson was only too glad to promise to avail himself of this invitation. And on the following day he arrived at Woodside, excited and eager. And after tea was over Mrs. Churchill proceeded to carry out her little plan. She sent May into the garden alone, under the pretense that she wanted her to gather some flowers, and presently she sent young Henderson after her.

May was in the very act of cutting some roses when she heard his step on the walk behind her, and she was returning to the house to avoid him, when he suddenly caught her hand.

“Don’t go, May,” he said, in an agitated manner, “I want a few words with you.”

“I am busy,” answered May, “I can not stay.”

“You must stay,” went on Henderson, almost roughly. “May, how long is this to go on? How long are you going to play with me as you are playing with me now?”

“I never played with you, Mr. Henderson,” said May, with some dignity of manner.

“Oh, yes, you did. But play or not play, will you listen to what I have got to say?”

“I don’t wish to listen, Mr. Henderson; nothing that you can have to say to me—”

“Don’t drive me mad, May!” cried the young man, passionately. “You know I love you; that I love you too well, and yet you are always cold to me.”

“I am sorry if—if you care for me—for I can give you nothing in return.”

“Nothing!”

“Mr. Henderson, it is best to speak the truth.”

“Your parents wish it,” interrupted Henderson, eagerly; “your mother sent me to speak to you.”

“I have no mother,” said May, raising her head, proudly; “if you mean my father’s wife, she has no right to interfere with my affairs.”

“And this is all you have to say to me?”

“Yes, except to hope you will never speak of this to me again.”

A half-suppressed oath broke from Henderson’s lips.

“You carry things with a high hand, I must say; but if this means that that fellow Temple has come between you and me, he had best take care! No one shall come between us—you have cost me too much!”

An evil look came over his face as he spoke—such an evil look that May half-shuddered and hurried away, and as she entered the house she met her stepmother in the hall, who looked at her searchingly.

“Have you seen Mr. Henderson? Has he spoken to you?” she asked.

May felt very angry.

“I wish you would not send Mr. Henderson to speak to me,” she said; “I told you it was no use.”

“You are a foolish girl, and you should not speak to me in that manner,” retorted Mrs. Churchill.

“It has annoyed me very much,” continued May, “about these things. I may certainly be allowed to manage my own affairs.”

“We shall see, but you are very impertinent, and I shall speak to your father about your conduct.”

May said nothing more. She went to her own room, and after locking the door sat down to do what she did every hour of the day—to think of John Temple. Oh! how she longed for his return. She had made her decision; the decision that he had asked for in his letter, and was ready to brave everything for his sake. But he had been gone nearly a month, and she had heard nothing of or from him. Still she did not doubt his word nor his love. He would come back and then how different everything would seem.

But she had not heard the last of young Henderson’s visit. When she went down to supper both her father and her stepmother received her very coldly. Then when the meal was over her father spoke to her very seriously.

“May,” he said, after he had taken a few puffs at his pipe, “your mother tells me you have been acting very foolishly and not treating her with the respect which is her due, and which I will insist on from everyone in this house.”

“If you mean about Mr. Henderson,” answered May, turning very red, “I refuse to have anything to say to him.”

“You should take the advice of those older than yourself; your mother—”

“Mrs. Churchill is not my mother,” said May, hotly; “poor mother, I am sure, would never have urged me to encourage a man with Mr. Henderson’s character.”

Mr. Churchill got very angry.

“Don’t be so impertinent, girl!” he said. “I’ll tell you what it is, May, if you go on in this way you may find another home for yourself, for I won’t have you in mine!”

“Very well, father, I will,” answered May, and she rose and left the room, and the husband and wife were alone.

“I am afraid you have spoilt her, William,” said Mrs. Churchill.

“I’ll unspoil her, then,” swore the farmer. “I can not think what’s come over her of late.”

This was the first serious quarrel that May had ever had with her father. Mr. Churchill was, indeed, both fond and proud of her. But his new wife had already gained a strong influence over him. She was a clever woman in her way, and good-looking, and very well off, all of which qualifications Mr. Churchill thought much of, and of the last the most. Therefore, the next day he scarcely spoke to May, and her position in the house was exceedingly disagreeable.

But on the day following there came a change. It was Sunday, and May went to church with her two young brothers, her father and stepmother remaining at home, as Mrs. Churchill had a cold. And when May lifted her eyes, and looked at the squire’s square pew, she saw seated there John Temple and Mrs. Temple, his uncle’s wife.