The next day was a wet and dreary one, almost a storm. The wind sighed through the budding trees at Woodlea Hall, and the rain beat against the window panes. A bright fire was, however, burning in the library during the afternoon, and the new master, John Temple, was there, and Mrs. Temple, the widow of the old one.

John Temple was smoking endless cigarettes and reading. He was nearly always smoking now, and Mrs. Temple declared she delighted in the smell of tobacco. She in truth delighted to be in John Temple’s company, and nearly always contrived to be so.

Presently John Temple rose from his easy chair and flung the remains of his last cigarette into the grate, and having lit a new one began walking restlessly up and down the long room, and Mrs. Temple’s dark eyes followed his tall, slight form as he did so.

“What are you thinking of, John?” at last she asked.

“Can’t tell,” he answered somewhat listlessly; “the wind disquiets me, I think.”

“It is a storm,” she said, and then she also rose, and went first to one of the windows of the room and looked out. Presently she turned around and joined John Temple, and slid her hand through his arm and began walking by his side.

She had scarcely done this, however, when they both heard the sound of carriage wheels approaching up the avenue, and a minute or so later the hall doorbell rang.

“What a bore!” exclaimed John Temple. “If it is any visitors, say I’m out.”

“Very well,” she answered, but still remained by his side. A few moments later, however, a footman rapped at the room door and then entered, carrying a salver on which lay a card, which he presented to his new master.

John Temple put out his hand carelessly and took it up, but the instant he saw the printed name a quick change came over his face.

“Who is it?” asked Mrs. Temple, sharply, who had noticed the change.

“A man I wish to see—you may show him in here,” he went on, addressing the footman; “and perhaps you,” and he looked at Mrs. Temple, “if you do not mind—”

“You wish me to go?” said Mrs. Temple, quickly. “Very well, I will—only do nothing rash.”

John Temple made no answer to this, and then Mrs. Temple quitted the room, and in the hall she passed a tall, dark man, who was being ushered to the library by the footman.

And a moment later Ralph Webster entered the room. He bowed gravely to John Temple, who also bowed, and a slight flush rose to his face as he did so.

“You are Mr. John Temple, I presume?” then said Webster.

“I am.”

“I have come on a strange errand, Mr. Temple,” continued Webster; “but I have come because I believe it to be my duty to do so. I am the nephew of two ladies whom you used to know; of the ladies to whose care you confided the young lady whom you afterward married from their house.”

John Temple bowed his head; his face contracted as if with pain.

“I understand,” he said in a low tone. “Have—have you anything to tell me?”

Webster hesitated for a moment and then went on.

“I knew this young lady; I met her at my aunts’, and I knew you also by name, and had been told of your marriage. But in the course of my professional career I met another lady—Miss Kathleen Weir—and from her I learned the early history of her life and her connection with you.”

Temple’s lip curled.

“Has she sent you to me?” he said. “I presume you know she came here, and wished to make some arrangement?”

“Yes, I know,” answered Webster, gravely. “No, she has not sent me here—Miss Kathleen Weir is dead.”

“Dead! impossible!” cried John Temple, and his face grew pale.

“She died yesterday afternoon; an accident had occurred the night before, and she overturned a lamp and was terribly burned. I was with her when she died; I saw her die.”

“Good God! I can not believe it!” exclaimed Temple.

“It is nevertheless true—and I, knowing of her marriage to you—knowing also of your other marriage—”

“What have you got to say to me, sir?” interrupted Temple, quickly. “I am denying nothing; but what have you got to say?”

“This,” answered Webster, with quiet dignity. “When I heard of your first marriage I knew that you had also contracted a second marriage, and that—the young lady was living under my aunts’ roof.”

“Well?” said Temple, sharply.

“But I could not—I did not feel that I was called upon to tell this—to destroy her happiness.”

Unconsciously Webster’s voice faltered as he uttered the last few words, and Temple looked at him with eager anxiety.

“But you yourself told the secret,” went on Webster, recovering himself; “you told this young girl what well-nigh broke her heart—that she was no wife—that she was—”

“Be silent! How dare you speak thus!” cried John Temple, hoarsely and passionately.

“I speak for a purpose,” continued Webster; “you told her of your early marriage to Miss Weir; and in her despair, her sudden shame and anguish, she left you, never intending to see you more.”

John Temple sprang forward; he grasped Webster’s arm.

“Do you know anything?” he gasped out. “Do you know if—she lives?”

“Yes, Mr. Temple, she lives. That night, after she left the hotel in her despair, by chance I saw her; she looked so ill, so strange, that I, knowing her story, followed her. I followed her to Westminster bridge, and then—when she was very ill—when she was unconscious, I took her to St. Phillip’s Hospital.”

“And she is living? Oh! thank God! Thank God!”

There was no doubting his great thankfulness, and Webster’s voice softened a little as he went on.

“She is living, and now nearly well. She went through a long and dangerous illness, and at times we almost despaired of her life. But at last her youth reasserted itself, though only on one condition did she struggle feebly back to life. And this condition was that her very existence had to be kept an absolute secret; she wished everyone to believe her dead.”

For a moment John Temple did not speak; his lips quivered; he turned away his head.

“I promised faithfully to keep her secret,” continued Webster; “no one knew at the hospital who she was but myself, and I have kept it until now—until after the death of Kathleen Weir.”

“And she left me to endure all this misery—a bitter, unending remorse and regret,” now said John Temple, in a broken, agitated voice. “She—who said she loved me—who said that we could not live apart—it seems that she could.”

“Mr. Temple, you are unjust.”

“It may be so, but—it was not thus that I regarded her. However, if your news be true—if poor Kathleen is indeed dead—I will, of course, at once remarry May. She knows, I suppose, that you are here; knows why you came?”

“She knows nothing. I have not seen her since Miss Weir’s death.”

“And where is she living now?”

“At St. Phillip’s Hospital. She has never left it. She is now one of the nursing sisters there; she insisted on working for her daily bread.”

For a few moments after this Temple did not speak. He stood with knitted brows as if in thought. Then he held out his hand to Webster.

“I am very grateful to you,” he said; “grateful to you for coming to tell me all this; and for your kindness—to the poor girl to whom I did so great a wrong. But I will be honest with you; I believed May loved me so well that even had I told her of that early tie—broken years ago—that she still would have shared my fortunes. I judged her feelings by my own—but it seems I was mistaken.”

Webster did not speak; he cast down his eyes; an angry throb passed through his heart.

“However, we need not speak of this,” continued Temple after a moment’s pause. “There is now but one course for me to take, which is at once to go to her, and for us to be immediately remarried. Her father is in London at this very time seeking her—he did not believe as I did.”

Still Webster was silent.

“I shall, therefore,” went on John Temple, “at once telegraph to him that she is safe and well. As for you, Mr. Webster, I do not know how to thank you.”

“I need no thanks,” answered Webster a little hoarsely.

“I have the highest regard and liking for your aunts, and I hope now my poor little May will welcome them here. And you—you will dine and stay all night here?”

But Webster shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I must return by the next train to town; my mission here is ended—I will see—”

“May? Then I will travel with you. Yes, kindly see her, and break the news to her of poor Kathleen’s death. But I feel yet as if I can scarcely forgive May. If she wished to leave me she might have done so; not cost me such bitter pain.”

“We will not discuss it.”

“No, it is useless. And now, Mr. Webster, will you kindly excuse me for a few minutes? I will ring for some refreshments for you, and if you really must return by the next train to town, it passes our station at a quarter to six;” and John Temple looked at his watch. “I will go with you, and to-morrow—you will see May?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is all settled. I will rejoin you in a few minutes; I wish to tell my news to my uncle’s widow, and, Mr. Webster, I may depend on your honor, I am sure, to keep all this a secret.”

“You may quite depend upon me,” answered Webster, a little bitterly.

After this John Temple left the room, and went straight to the morning-room, where he expected to find Mrs. Temple. She was there, looking pale and agitated, and she went forward quickly to meet him.

“Who is that gentleman, John?” she said. “I have been feeling quite anxious.”

“He has brought me strange news, Rachel,” answered John Temple, gravely. He called her now by her Christian name, as she had expressed a wish that he should do so.

“Strange news?” she repeated, and her face grew paler.

“Yes; May is alive—and—”

“Then what will you do?” asked the agitated woman before him, almost with a gasp.

“There is but one thing for me to do.”

“You mean—”

“I will go to her; we must be remarried—for I have other news for you; this gentleman, Mr. Webster, has brought me other news—my first wife, Kathleen Weir, is dead.”

A half-cry broke from Mrs. Temple’s white lips, and that was all. She stood there with wide-open eyes and heaving breast. John Temple’s news was a death-blow to her new hopes of happiness and love, but still she could speak no word.

“It seems,” went on John Temple, scarcely daring to look at her white face, “that this Mr. Webster knew all the time where May was—at some hospital or other—but by May’s especial wish he kept this a secret.”

“And she calls this love!” cried Mrs. Temple, wildly and passionately. “Love! to make you endure such pain; to make your life a burden; each day a fresh pang! If this is love, I know not what it is.”

“It seems strange,” said John Temple, and then without another word he went away.

An hour or so later two men were sitting in the same railway carriage together traveling to town, but they were not talking of the loves or the tragedies of their lives. They were talking gravely of the passing topics of the day, of politics, of books, and the names of May Churchill and Kathleen Weir were never once mentioned between them. Not at least until they reached the terminus and were about to separate for the night. Then as they shook hands, John Temple said quietly: “At what time will you see May in the morning?”

“Early,” answered Webster; “about eleven o’clock.”

“Then will you telegraph to me, and I will go to her? I will also see her father.”

“And—” hesitated Webster; “what will you say to him?”

“Best tell him the truth, I think, and Mr. Churchill will see the wisdom and prudence of keeping it to himself. Besides he had better be present at our marriage.”

“And my aunts?”

“Is there any reason to say anything to them? They know nothing, and they may as well continue in ignorance of a painful story. And now again many thanks.”

So they parted, and Webster went back to his lonely chambers, and thought of what he had done.

“If it is for her happiness,” and then he sighed wearily; somehow he was not quite sure that it would be.

And early the next morning he sent a telegram to May at St. Phillip’s Hospital to say he would be with her by eleven o’clock. May received this telegram with great surprise, for Webster never wrote to her, nor sent telegrams, and when he called it was generally late in the afternoon. But precisely at eleven o’clock a message was sent to her that Mr. Webster was waiting to see her in the sitting-room of the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood.

She accordingly went there, and found Webster standing, looking grave and pale, and so ill that she instantly remarked on it.

“Are you not well, Mr. Webster?” she said. “You do not look at all well.”

Webster scarcely answered her; he had taken her hand, and stood looking in her fair face, and there was great pain and trouble in his heart.

“I have some news for you, May,” he said at length.

He had never before called her “May,” and she noticed this and blushed.

“News?” she answered. “Not bad news, I hope.”

Twice he opened his lips, but somehow no words came forth. And his manner was so strange that May grew really alarmed.

“What is it?” she said. “Oh! you frighten me—has anything happened?”

Then with a great effort he told her.

“May, Kathleen Weir is dead.”

The blood rushed to May’s face as she listened to these words, and then died away, leaving her very pale.

“Dead!” she repeated; and in an instant it flashed across her mind all that this might mean to her.

“Yes,” went on Webster, trying to speak calmly, “she died the day before yesterday. It was an accident; she was burned to death.”

“How dreadful!—and does—he know?”

“Yes,” again answered Webster. “I saw him yesterday—it was but right that he should know—he is coming to you to-day.”

May gave a little cry; a little start, as if she were half afraid.

“If it is for your happiness,” continued Webster with faltering lips, “otherwise, of course—”

For a moment or two May did not speak. She stood as if thinking, as if in doubt. Then suddenly she held out her hand to Webster.

“It is but right,” she said, speaking with an effort. “And you—how am I to thank you for all you have done for me?”

Webster’s lips quivered. He tried to say some commonplace words. He stooped down and kissed her trembling hand.

“Your happiness is—everything to me,” he faltered. “I have thought of that alone.”

And somehow at this moment she understood something of the unspoken feelings of his heart. One of those glimpses into another’s soul which came unsought passed through hers. She trembled; she drew away her hand.

“May God bless you,” murmured Webster, and the next moment he was gone. And he left May strangely disturbed. His constant kindness, his generosity in word and deed, and now his unselfish love, moved her deeply. But she had not much time for thought. She had scarcely indeed returned to her duties in the wards when another message was brought to her that a second visitor was waiting for her in the house surgeon’s room, and the moment she heard this she knew who it would be.

It was in truth John Temple; and as she entered the room pale, nervous, beautiful, he advanced toward her and took her in his arms.

“How could you give me all that bitter pain, May?” were his first words, and then he bent down and kissed her lips.

“You know that I am free now,” he said, presently. “I have seen your father, and have arranged with him that we shall be married again immediately. But May, I will never believe that you really loved me now.”

She looked at him with eyes full of reproach.

“I—I meant to die,” she faltered. “But for Mr. Webster—”

“Do not, please, speak of it; you are looking very well; as pretty as ever, I think, May; and you must forget all this like a bad dream. Do you know my poor uncle is dead?”

“I never heard of it; I have lived here, and—never spoken of the past.”

“He is dead, poor man; he died quite suddenly, and I was recalled to England in consequence. I am living at Woodlea now, and you must go there, May.”

“Oh! it seems so strange—all so strange, John.”

She put her hand half-timidly into his as she spoke, and as she said it was all so strange. A long lifetime appeared to lie between her and the early days of her fond love and happiness. She looked up in John’s face; it seemed changed, too, but he was very kind and gentle to her.

“You must change this becoming dress,” he said, smiling, and laying his hand on her black gown. “The cap suits you charmingly, but it won’t do for you now, you know. You will want some money, May, so I have brought it for you.”

“Oh, how can you talk of such things—just when we have met again.”

“My child, it was your own fault that we ever parted. However, we had best agree to drop this subject forever; no one knows of it but one person, and for my sake I think she will keep the secret.”

“And—my father?”

“Oh, I was forced to tell him a garbled sort of story, but, of course, we may depend on his secrecy. He will be present at your second wedding, May, and will give you away.”

May gave a tremulous little sigh. She was remembering her first wedding, and her infinite love and trust.

“Your father will be here presently, I expect,” went on John Temple, “and I think you had better stay with him until we are married. We can be married the day after to-morrow by special license, but not to-morrow.”

Not to-morrow! for John Temple knew that on the morrow Kathleen Weir was to be laid in her untimely grave. He did not mean to follow her there; to him for long years she had been a burden and encumbrance. But all the same he did not choose to marry on her burial day.

But he did not tell May this, and while he was still talking of their future arrangements Mr. Churchill arrived. Both May and he were much affected at this meeting. Mr. Churchill caught his “little girl” in his arms and kissed her again and again, with something like a tear glistening in his brown eyes. John Temple had not told him the whole story of his first marriage; he had told him, however, that there was some flaw in the marriage to May, and that they had better be married again, and that Mr. Churchill also had better be present. And though Mr. Churchill was an affectionate father, and really fond of May, he was also a tenant. John Temple was his landlord, and it behooved him, as a prudent man, to make the best of the situation. He, therefore, accepted the explanation he was offered, and gladly agreed to keep the whole affair of the second marriage a secret at Woodside.

Thus everything was very soon arranged between the two men, and before the day was over May left the home that had sheltered her in her cruel need. But both John Temple and Mr. Churchill gave gifts to the hospital—John Temple, lavishly; Mr. Churchill, prudently. And May also slid a handsome sum into the kindly hand of Sister Margaret.

“So you are going to be married to this other gentleman,” said Sister Margaret, rather in a disappointed tone. “Well, I thought it would have been Mr. Webster.”

“Oh! hush, hush!” said May, quickly; “Mr. Webster never thought of such a thing.”

“I am almost certain he did, though I have had so little experience in lovers,” replied Sister Margaret. “Well, my dear, whoever it is, I only hope you may be happy.”

So with the good wishes of all she had known, May quitted St. Phillip’s and went with her father to the hotel at which he was staying. And the next two days were very busy ones, for May had a whole wardrobe to purchase, and John Temple was very generous. And on the night before their marriage, when they were sitting together, John Temple suddenly put his arm round her and drew her to his breast.

“May,” he said, “are you happy now? quite happy?”

“Yes,” she answered, softly; “and very grateful.”

She meant to God, but John Temple did not understand her, and kissed her very tenderly.

And early the next morning they were married, and Mr. Churchill felt sure at least that this time there was no mistake. And he was a proud and happy man as he gave his young daughter to John Temple, though not so elated as he had been when he returned to Woodside after seeing the register of their first marriage. And scarcely had the bride and bridegroom started to spend a few days at Brighton before going to Woodlea when Mr. Churchill sat down and wrote the following letter to his wife:

“Dear Sarah: I shall be back to-morrow by the first train, and I am happy to say the business that I came up to London for is now all satisfactorily settled. May had had a slight disagreement with her husband, and, like a foolish girl, quarreled with him. But it is all made up now, and I think in about a week at latest they will be going down to the Hall, and then I hope we shall often see them. May sends her love to you”—here Mr. Churchill did not quite adhere to the truth—”and to the boys, and best let all bygones be bygones. May is now Mrs. Temple of Woodlea Hall, and can hold her head up with the best of them; and Mr. John Temple, besides being my son-in-law, is my landlord, and I therefore naturally wish to keep on good terms with him. I have bought you a new silk gown, and I hope you will like it. And I remain,

“Your affectionate husband,

”William Churchill.“

John Temple wrote a letter before he left town to tell Mrs. Temple of his marriage, a letter which she received with deep emotion.

”Dear Rachel: I was remarried this morning to May, and Mr. Churchill was present. And now I am going to ask you for the sake of the friendship you have shown me, to keep the unhappy story I confided to you and this second marriage a secret. No good would come of telling it, and no one knows it but yourself, Mr. Webster (whom I can trust), and May’s father. Let us, therefore, try to forget it; but I shall not forget your kindness to me during the unhappy time when I first returned to Woodlea.

“And there is another thing that I wish to mention to you, which is that once or twice you have talked of the Hall as my house, and of your leaving it. I hope that you will do nothing of the sort, and that you will always regard it as your home. Independently of the pleasure that your company will give me, you will, of course, be the greatest advantage and assistance to my poor little May in her new position. She is looking very well, and is very sweet and gentle, but I fear her people will be somewhat of a trial. However, we must make the best of it.

“We are going down to Brighton for a few days, and I will then return to Woodlea about to-day week, I think. But I will let you know when to expect us. And with kind regards, I remain,

“Very sincerely yours,

”John Temple.

“P. S.—Above all things say nothing to your mother.

“J. T.”