A whole year passed away after May’s arrival at the Hall as John Temple’s wife; a year with its chances and changes, when it became known in the neighborhood that it was hoped an heir was about to be born to Woodlea.

The prospect of this event pleased John Temple greatly, but displeased Mrs. Temple. She did not wish this new and tender tie to draw closer the two she fain would part. But she was, of course, obliged to conceal her feelings.

“But I hope,” she one day said smiling to John Temple, “that when the interesting event comes off that your charming mother-in-law will not take up her abode here?”

John Temple laughed.

“Oh! nonsense,” he said, “May would not care to have her here.”

Mrs. Churchill had, however, already hinted to May that she would like to be present, but May had her own ideas on the subject, and she accordingly acted on them.

“John, may I invite Miss Webster to be with me when baby is born?” she said to her husband, and John Temple immediately assented.

“Of course, my dear, invite whoever you like,” he answered, kindly. “Yes, I think Miss Webster would be a very good person for you to have with you; she is a motherly woman, though she has never been a mother.”

“Thank you, dear John,” replied May; “I shall be so glad if she will come.”

“It’s strange Webster will never come here,” went on John Temple; “I’ve asked him three times, you know, May.”

“He’s such a busy man, I suppose; then I will write to Miss Webster to-day, John.”

And May did write, and Miss Webster accepted the invitation. Both the sisters had been previously asked to Woodlea, but an illness of Miss Eliza’s had prevented their going. Now, however, Miss Eliza was well enough to be left, and Miss Webster wrote that she looked forward with sincere pleasure “again to kiss the sweet face” she “so often thought of.”

May also was truly delighted to see once more the kindly woman under whose hospitable roof she had once spent such bright hours of hope and happiness. She drove to the station to meet Miss Webster. She showed her, with modest pride, all the tiny treasures she had prepared, and in which Mrs. Temple had no interest.

“And how is Mr. Webster?” she asked, shortly after Miss Webster arrived.

“Oh, Ralph is very well, I think, and desired to be remembered to you. But he works too hard, I tell him; he is rising rapidly at the bar, and has more briefs offered to him than he can possibly accept. And I believe he is going to try to get into Parliament at the next election.”

“I am very glad,” said May, quietly. But she sighed softly as she turned away. She was thinking of Ralph Webster, and her great debt to him which she could never pay.

But a day or two after Miss Webster’s arrival at the Hall, something so terrible occurred that for many weeks May’s life was as a bewildered dream. It happened so suddenly that the blow fell with crushing force, and it was well for May that she had by her side one so sincere and faithful as her old friend.

They had all lunched together, and John Temple had been in one of his brightest moods. He was going to ride after lunch, and when his horse came round May followed him into the hall to see him mount. And as she stood there—looking a little wan perhaps, but with her sweet, serene face raised to his—a sudden impulse of affection induced John Temple to stoop down and kiss her.

“Take care of yourself, little woman,” he said; “I’m so glad you have Miss Webster with you.”

May smiled, and thus they parted. She was feeling a little tired, and Miss Webster therefore advised her to go to her room and lie down, and in a little while she fell into a placid sleep.

In the meantime John Temple was riding quietly along the country lanes, with the hedge-rows on either side green with the hues of the spring-time. And for no particular purpose, when he reached the outskirts of Henley Wood he turned his horse toward the road through it, admiring placidly as he went the trees just budding into leafage.

It was a peaceful scene, and there was no disturbing element in John Temple’s mind, when suddenly there sprang from behind the trunk of one of the great oaks the figure of a man.

John turned his head to look at this man, and in a moment recognized him. It was Tom Henderson of Stourton Grange, but a terrible change had passed over the young man’s face; and in an instant it flashed across John’s mind that he had heard that Tom Henderson had been, or was, mad.

And he could not doubt this now. Henderson stood straight before him on the roadway, brandishing a huge, heavy, oaken bludgeon, which he had probably cut from one of the neighboring trees. And as John Temple approached nearer, with a frightful yell he sprang forward toward him, and struck a severe blow on the head of John’s horse.

The horse reared, and John lashed the madman with his riding-whip, which was his only means of defense. But with a hoarse scream of rage Henderson now closed with him, striking him also on the head with his murderous weapon, and John reeled from his saddle and fell.

“Now I’ve got my revenge!” shrieked Henderson. “You who spoilt my life!”

By this time, however, John Temple had regained his feet, and a fierce struggle ensued between the two men. John was blinded by the blood flowing from the wound on his brow, but still he fought bravely for his life. They wound their arms round each other; they tore, they strained, but Henderson was a more heavily built man than John Temple, and his madness gave him unnatural strength. Finally he forced John down on the ground below him, and struck him with his clenched fist, once more on the head. John Temple’s arms relaxed their grasp; a deadly faintness stole over him, and Henderson gave a hideous laugh. He had won the fight, and he rose triumphant and spurned his enemy with his foot; and then drawing his pocket-knife from his coat, plunged it into John Temple’s breast.

He had scarcely done the murderous deed when he heard hurried footsteps approaching down the roadway, and he at once turned and fled. It was his keeper, from whose care he had escaped, and the man had come out to seek him. The keeper, horrified, now came on John Temple’s prostrate body. He knelt down, he raised the head, and for a moment or two longer John Temple lived.

He breathed once or twice; he whispered one word—“May—” he murmured, and as the name lingered on his lips he died.

Late in the afternoon May awoke from her placid sleep. She had been dreaming, poor child, but not of the dark tragedy that had been enacted in Henley Wood. Yet she awoke with a start and sat up, and then distinctly heard loud, piercing screams of grief ringing through the house. She at once hastily rose, and was approaching the door of her bedroom when it opened, and Miss Webster’s gentle face appeared.

“Oh, Miss Webster, someone is crying so dreadfully; what is it?” asked May.

“There has been an accident, my dear,” faltered Miss Webster, who was very pale.

“An accident?” repeated May, alarmed. “What has happened?”

“Your husband—Mr. Temple, has been thrown from his horse,” answered Miss Webster in an agitated voice.

“John! Oh! where is he?” cried May, and her face grew very white. “I will go to him at once,” and she grasped Miss Webster’s arm.

“No, dear, you can not go just now,” said Miss Webster, soothingly; “you can not see him just now—you must think of the child, May—”

A cry burst from May’s pale lips, and she looked eagerly in Miss Webster’s face, which was full of pity and distress.

“Tell me the worst!” gasped May. “I—I—see—Oh! God! it can not be!”

“My dear—” began Miss Webster, and then her kindly lips refused their office.

“Tell me—” repeated May, huskily, “is he—is he—”

“My dear, he has passed away from all earthly troubles,” answered Miss Webster, in broken accents; “he has been thrown from his horse and his head injured—but May, my dear, my dear, you have a duty before you—be brave, and bear this great blow for your child’s sake.”

But with a moan May sank prone upon the floor; and as she did so the frantic cries of Mrs. Temple still sounded in her ears!

Miss Webster at once rang the bell violently, and a moment or two later the doctor appeared. It had been known in the household that Miss Webster had gone to break the news to the poor widow, and there were anxious listeners waiting outside. Among these were Mr. Churchill and the doctor, who had been hastily summoned after John Temple’s death, and who had accompanied the body to the Hall. He now—assisted by Miss Webster—lifted May on the bed, and he also spoke to May very impressively.

“My dear madam, think of your unborn child; you may irreparably injure it unless you control your grief.”

And May understood. She lay there with her white face and her wide-open eyes trying to keep calm. She had looked forward to her motherhood, thinking it would fill a strange void in her heart, and she struggled now as bravely as she could with her bitter pain.

That night her child was born; born amid such anguish that for long hours they scarcely hoped the young mother would survive. But when the pale spring dawn crept through the window-blinds the early beams fell on the small, pinched features of the little heir of Woodlea. They fell too on the pale, handsome face of the dead father; on the face of John Temple lying in his unbroken sleep.

May was ill for many weeks after this. She had fever, and was happily unconscious when the inquest was held on her husband’s body. And at this inquest the miserable mother of the madman Henderson was forced to appear. She gave her evidence in a broken, faltering voice, telling those present that her son had never recovered from the effects of a blow he had received from the late Mr. John Temple; that he had had brain fever, and that for some time afterward his reason was completely overthrown, and he had been confined in a lunatic asylum. Lately, however, he had appeared to be so much better that she had brought him home, though one of the keepers from the asylum accompanied him.

This man then stated that Mr. Henderson had appeared perfectly well and sane during lunch on the day of the murder, but that he afterward suddenly missed him, and at once started out to seek him, and was horrified by finding Mr. John Temple’s body lying on the roadway with Mr. Henderson’s pocket knife thrust in his breast. He said Mr. Temple was not quite dead when he found him, but expired a few moments later. He also stated that when Henderson was recaptured that he was in a state of raging madness, and boasted constantly of his murderous deed; and that he was now once more confined in the asylum.

All these terrible details May was mercifully spared, and she never knew the ghastly truth about John Temple’s death. He had been killed by a fall from his horse, she was told, and Miss Webster, and Miss Eliza, who had now joined her sister, took good care she heard nothing more.

These two good ladies indeed watched over her with the most devoted affection during the long days of her illness. And to their great delight the child throve, and by and by May would look sometimes in the baby’s face and smile. As for Mr. Churchill his pride and pleasure in the little heir was unbounded. He brought his wife to the Hall to see him, and boasted, it must be confessed, a good deal of the babe’s future possessions.

In the meantime Mrs. Temple had left the Hall. Her violent grief at John Temple’s sudden death was characteristic of her nature, and everything painfully reminded her of him. She hated, too, the “baby worship,” as she called it, of the two maiden sisters, and once or twice Mr. Churchill had somewhat plainly hinted in her presence that when May recovered that, as the mother of the heir of Woodlea, she ought to act as mistress of the house.

So Mrs. Temple went away, and her absence was a relief to May, and indeed to the whole household. May could see her father and brothers when she wished now; and at her earnest request the Misses Webster stayed on with her during the whole summer. They used to talk to her sometimes of “dear Ralph,” but the autumn was far advanced, and John Temple had lain in his grave six months, before Ralph Webster saw again the woman he had befriended in her bitter need.

He came quite unexpectedly—at least to May—one October afternoon, when the three ladies were sitting together in the stately, old-fashioned garden of the Hall. The leaves were floating downward from the trees, but the air was scarcely chill. It was like a summer day, yet the tints and hues of the fading year were stamped on flower and leaf. And somehow May was thinking of this, of the change which comes to every living thing, when the sound of a firm step on the gravel behind the seat where she was sitting, made her raise her head and look around.

And the two sisters did the same thing, at the same instant, and then started to their feet.

“Ralph!” they both cried, and hastily went forward to meet their nephew with outstretched hands.

But May only rose; a strange nervousness came over her; seeing Ralph Webster again recalled so much.

“Will you pardon my intrusion?” he asked a moment later, as he took her hand in his.

“Of course—I—I am very glad—” she faltered in reply.

“As my aunts have entirely forsaken me,” went on Webster with a smile, “I thought I might venture to look them up.”

“We have often talked of you, my dear,” said kind Miss Webster.

“Yes, my dear, often,” sighed Miss Eliza.

“I—am afraid I have been very selfish, but I would not let them leave me,” continued May, with more self-possession. “I am very glad to see you here, Mr. Webster.”

“Thank you very much.”

As he said these simple words he raised his eyes and looked in her fair face, and it seemed more fair to him even than he had thought it was.

“I have often thought of coming,” he said, in a low tone; and a faint blush stole to May’s cheeks as he spoke.

“We had better go into the house now,” she suggested, the next moment, looking at Miss Webster. “Mr. Webster will be tired with his journey.”

Thus they all returned to the Hall together, and the first awkwardness of the meeting was over. Ralph Webster stayed to dinner and remained all night, but when he proposed to leave the next morning, May asked him to spend another day with them.

“Can you not spare us another day?” she said, smiling.

Webster thought he could spare many, but he did not say this. He, however, accepted the invitation, and May and Aunt Eliza took him a long walk through the park, and as they trod the mossy paths somehow both May and Webster were very silent. But Aunt Eliza was unusually loquacious, and carried on the conversation with scarcely any assistance.

“It seems almost like the delightful old days when May was with us at Pembridge Terrace, does it not, Ralph?” said the good lady at length, with a total absence of tact.

“Yes,” answered Webster, briefly; and for a moment his brow clouded.

But presently it cleared again, and no further allusion was made to bygone times. Nor did Webster during this visit make any allusion to the unchanged feelings of his heart. They parted as friends part, who know and feel the truth of that much-belied word. May knew how true a friend Ralph Webster had been to her, how unselfish and self-sacrificing, and she had not forgotten that parting before her second marriage with poor John Temple. She had understood something of his true feelings then, and perhaps a subtle instinct told her he was not one to change. And before he went, he promised to return.

“May I come down for Christmas?” he said, and May softly answered, “Yes.”

And when Christmas came, a snowy Christmas, when all the outside world was white, and at the Hall the laurels and fir-trees were weighed down with the frozen rain, and the gates blocked with the sloping drifts, Webster arrived.

His aunts hurried into the hall to welcome the chilled traveler, and a little behind them stood the gracious black-clad figure for whom Webster’s eyes eagerly sought. Then May also went forward with a welcoming smile, and the two clasped each other’s hands and exchanged good wishes, and Webster knew they were no empty words.

He arrived on Christmas Eve, and May had her two young brothers staying with her, and the boys had made the hall and the rooms bright with holly. Their presence, too, made the house more cheerful, for their young voices rang with the tones that had known no grief. Webster was soon on the most friendly terms with them, and the next morning went with them out amongst the snow, and came back, his fond aunts declared, “looking quite like a boy.”

But it was not the snow nor the frost that made Webster’s eyes bright and glad. It was a sort of inward consciousness that the fair woman he loved was not utterly indifferent to him. Yet he never had an opportunity of speaking to her alone. Mr. and Mrs. Churchill came to dinner, and as Mr. Churchill sat opposite his daughter at the foot of the table it seemed to him that his cup of prosperity was nearly full, and he could not resist glancing occasionally, somewhat triumphantly, at his wife, who on the whole felt rather subdued.

Mr. Churchill also invited Webster over to Woodside on the following day, but he declined.

“I am leaving to-morrow,” he said. “My brief holiday will soon be ended.”

But before he left he spoke the words to May that he had been intending to say. They were standing together in the afternoon, gazing out on the snowy landscape, when he turned round and looked steadfastly at her sweet, pensive face.

“I shall be leaving in less than an hour, May,” he said. “Will you give me something to take away with me?”

“What shall I give you?” asked May, in a low tone.

“Give me hope,” answered Webster; “the hope that some day I may win what to me is the dearest gift of life.”

May did not speak. Her head dropped, and she slightly turned it aside, but Webster could, still see the delicate profile.

“You know how long I have wished this,” went on Webster, earnestly; “almost from the first time I saw you I loved you—we were parted—”

“Hush, hush,” said May, in a low, trembling voice, “it is too soon to speak of such a thing—even to think of it—”

“But I can not help thinking of it.”

“I—I—can never repay you,” continued May in faltering accents. “Do not think I forget because I do not speak of the past—but for you—”

“You can repay me a hundred-fold, if there were anything to repay, which there is not, by giving me, before I leave you, the hope, even the faintest hope, that you will not quite forget me in my absence.”

“I can never forget you.”

Webster stooped down and kissed her hand.

“For the present I will try to be content, then,” he said; “but remember, May, that I think of you every day and hour of my life.”

Nothing more was said at the time; one of the boys rushed into the room, wanting, of course, something from his sister, and May was never again alone with Webster until he left. But she did not forget his words. In the spring she went up to town for a short visit to Miss Webster, and there she saw him constantly and at last—after a year of widowhood—she promised “some day” to be his wife.

But two whole years passed after John Temple’s tragic death before she would consent to marry. By this time Webster had entered Parliament, having won one of the by-elections, and in his profession he was striding on apace. A busy, active, ambitious man; strong and faithful in all things, and most faithful to his love.

They were married by Mr. Layton, but Mrs. Layton could scarcely suppress the bitterness of her tongue on the occasion.

“It will be a lord the next time,” she whispered to one of the spectators; but from motives of prudence the moment the ceremony was over, she rushed up to the newly-married pair and heartily congratulated them.

As for the Misses Webster, they were so overjoyed that they wept copiously—especially Miss Eliza—during the whole of the marriage service. Then they too hurried up to kiss the sweet, grave face of the bride, and May tenderly embraced them both.

“You have been my truest friends,” she whispered, “except Ralph.”

Mr. Churchill was also delighted with the match, and now superintends the whole of his young grandson’s property, receiving, we may be sure, a handsome income for doing so. The boys, too, are having first-rate educations, and the whole family are prosperous and well.

“And my poor daughter is now here,” sometimes Mrs. Layton thinks bitterly, sighing over the remembrance of the good things she used to obtain from the Hall in the old squire’s time. But Mrs. Temple never returned to Woodlea, though May invited her to do so. She married an officer, and went out to India with her husband; and on the rare occasions that she does write to her mother she never mentions “the new people,” as Mrs. Layton calls them, at Woodlea Hall. Nor does she inquire after “the heir,” perhaps not having quite forgotten the time when she waited and watched for the coming of poor John Temple!

THE END.

Note.—Riders of Monarch Bicycles say they are the very “Poetry of Motion” and a never-ending delight.