Hugo's first call at Strathleckie was made on the day following Mr. Stretton's arrival. Father Cristoforo's letter had been delivered by that morning's post, and it was during a stroll, in which, to tell the truth, Brian was more absorbed by the thought of Elizabeth than by any remembrance of his own position or of the Prior's views, that he dropped the letter of which the contents had so important a bearing on his future life. In justice to Brian, it must be urged that he had no idea that the Prior's letter was likely to be of any importance. Ever since he left San Stefano, the Prior had corresponded with him; but his letters were generally on very trivial subjects, or filled with advice upon moral and doctrinal points, which Brian could not find interesting. The severe animadversions upon his folly in returning to Scotland under an assumed name, which filled the first sheet, did not rouse in him any lively desire to read the rest of the letter. It was not likely to contain anything that he ought to know; and, at any rate, he could explain the loss and apologise for it in his next note to Padre Cristoforo.

The meeting between him and Elizabeth in the garden, which had been such a revelation to Hugo's mind, was purely accidental and led to no great result. She had been begged by the children to ask Mr. Stretton for a holiday. They wanted to go to a Wishing Well in the neighbourhood, and to have a picnic in honour of Kitty's birthday. Mr. Stretton was sure not to refuse them they said—if Elizabeth asked. And Mr. Stretton did not refuse.

His love for Elizabeth—that love which had sprung into being almost as soon as he beheld her, and which had grown with every hour spent in her company—was one of those deep and overmastering passions which a man can feel but once in a lifetime, and which many men never feel at all. If Brian had lived his life in London and at Netherglen with no great shock, no terrible grief, no overthrow of all his hopes, he might not have experienced this glow and thrill of passionate emotion; he might have walked quietly into love, made a suitable marriage, and remained ignorant to his life's end of the capabilities for emotion which existed within him. But, as often happens immediately after the occurrence of a great sorrow or recovery from a serious illness, his whole being seemed to undergo a change. When the strain of anxiety and prolonged anguish of mind was relaxed, the claims of youth re-asserted themselves. With returning health and strength there came an almost passionate determination to enjoy as much as remained to be enjoyed in life. The sunshine, the wind, the sea, the common objects of Nature,

And when, for the first time, Love also entered into his life, the world seemed to be transfigured. Although he had suffered much and lost much, he found it possible to dream of a future in which he might make for himself a home, and know once more the meaning of happiness. Was he selfish in hoping that life still contained a true joy for him, in spite of the sorrows that fate had heaped upon his head, as if she meant to overwhelm him altogether? At least, the hope was a natural one, and showed courage and resolution. He clung to it desperately, fiercely; he felt that after all he had lost he could not bear to let it go. The hope was too sweet—the chance of happiness too beautiful—to be lost. He felt as if he had a right to this one blessing. He had lost all beside. But, perhaps, this was a presumptuous mood, destined to rebuke and disappointment.

The fourth day after his arrival dawned, and he had not yet perceived, in his blindness of heart, the difference of position between the Elizabeth of his dreams and the Elizabeth of reality. Could the crisis be averted very much longer?

He fancied that Elizabeth was colder to him after that little scene in the study than she had ever been before. She looked pale and dispirited, and seemed to avoid speaking to him or meeting his eye. At breakfast-time that morning he noticed that she allowed a letter that had been brought to her to lie unopened beside her plate "It's from Percival, isn't it?" said Kitty, thoughtlessly. "You don't seem to be very anxious to read it." Elizabeth made no answer, but the colour rose to her cheek and then spread to the very roots of her golden-brown hair. Brian noticed the blush, and for the first time felt his heart contract with a bitter pang of jealousy. What right had Percival Heron to write letters to Elizabeth? Why did she blush when she was asked a question about a letter from him?

The whole party set off soon after ten o'clock for an expedition to a little loch amongst the hills. They intended to lunch beside the loch, then to enjoy themselves in different ways: Mr. Heron meant to sketch; Mrs. Heron took a novel to read; the others proposed to visit a spring at some little distance known as "The Wishing Well." This programme was satisfactorily carried out; but it chanced that Kitty and the boys reached the well before the others, and then wandered away to reach a further height, so that Brian and Elizabeth found themselves alone together beside the Wishing Well.

It was a lonely spot from which nothing but stretches of barren moor and rugged hills could be discerned. One solitary patch of verdure marked the place where the rising spring had fertilised the land; but around this patch of green the ground was rich only in purple heather. Not even a hardy pine or fir tree broke the monotony of the horizon. Yet, the scene was not without its charm. There was grandeur in the sweep of the mountain-lines; there was a wonderful stillness in the sunny air, broken only by the buzz of a wandering bee and the trickle of the stream; there was the great arch of blue above the moor, and the magical tints of purple and red that blossoming heather always brings out upon the mountain-sides. The bareness of the land was forgotten in its wealth of colouring; and perhaps Brian and Elizabeth were not wrong when they said to each other that Italy had never shown them a scene that was half so fair.

The water of the spring fell into a carved stone basin, which, tradition said, had once been the font of an old Roman Catholic chapel, of which only a few scattered stones remained. People from the surrounding districts still believed in the efficacy of its waters for the cure of certain diseases; and the practice of "wishing," which gave the well its name, was resorted to in sober earnest by many a village boy and girl. Elizabeth and Brian, who had hitherto behaved in a curiously grave and reserved manner to each other, laughed a little as they stood beside the spring and spoke of the superstition.

"We must try it," said Elizabeth, looking down into the sparkling water. "A crooked pin must be thrown in, and then we must silently wish for anything we especially desire, and, of course, we shall obtain it."

"Quite worth trying, if that is the case," said Brian. "But—I have tried the experiment before."

"Here?"

"Yes, here."

"I did not know that you had been to Dunmuir before."

"My wish did not come to pass," remarked Brian; "but there is no reason why you should not be more successful than I was, Miss Murray. And I feel a certain sort of desire to try once again."

"Here is a crooked pin," said Elizabeth. "Drop it into the water."

"Are you going to try?" he asked, when the ceremony had been performed.

"There is nothing that I wish for very greatly."

"Nothing? Ah, I have one wish—only one."

"I am unfortunate in that I have none," said Elizabeth.

"Then give me the benefit of your wishes. Wish that my wish may be fulfilled," said Brian.

She hesitated for a moment, then smiled, and threw a crooked pin into the water.

"I have wished," she said, as she watched it sink, "but I must not say what I wish: that breaks the charm."

"Sit down and rest," said Brian, persuasively, as she turned away. "There is a little shade here; and the others will no doubt join us by-and-bye. You must be tired."

"I am not tired, but I will sit down for a little while," said Elizabeth.

She seated herself on a stone beside the well; and Brian also sat down, but rather below her, so that he seemed to be sitting at her feet, and could look up into her face when he spoke. He kept silence at first, but said at last, with gentle deference of tone:—

"Miss Murray, there was something that you said you would tell me when you had the opportunity."

She paused before she answered.

"Not just now," he understood her to say at last, but her words were low and indistinct.

"Then—may I tell you something?"

She spoke more clearly in reply.

"I think not."

"Forgive me for saying so, but you must hear it some time. Why not now?"

She did not speak. Her colour varied a little, and her brows contracted with a slight look of pain.

"I do not know how to be silent any longer," he said, raising his eyes to her face, with a grave and manly resolve in their brown depths. "I have thought a great deal about it—about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why I should not speak. You are of age; you can do as you please; and I could work for both—because—Elizabeth—I love you."

It was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all; but more completely uttered, perhaps, than if he had told his tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped before he reached the end. As it was, Elizabeth's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause.

"Oh, no!" she said, "no; you don't mean that. Take back what you have said, Mr. Stretton."

"I cannot take it back," he said, quickly, "and I would not if I could; because you love me, too."

The conviction of his words made her turn pale. She darted a distressed look at him, half-rose from her seat, and then sat down again. Twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. But at last she found her voice.

"You do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, "that I am engaged to my cousin Percival."

He rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, looking down on her in silent consternation. She did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his gaze was upon her. It seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to the bottom of her heart.

"Is this true?" he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been—hoarse and broken almost beyond recognition. "And you never told me?"

"Why should I have told you? Only my uncle knows. It was a secret," she answered, in a clearer and colder tone. "I am sorry you did not know."

"So am I. God knows that I am sorry," said the young man, turning away to hide the look of bitter despair and disappointment, which he could not help but feel was too visibly imprinted on his face. "For if I had known, I might never have dared to love you. If I had known, I should never have dreamt of you as my wife."

At the sound of these two words, a shiver ran through her frame, as if a cold wind had blown over her from the mountain-heights above. She did not speak, however, and Brian went on in the low, difficult voice which told the intensity of his feelings more clearly than his words.

"I have been blind—mad, perhaps—but I thought that there was a hope for me. I fancied that you cared for me a little, that you guessed what I felt—that you, perhaps, felt it also. Oh, you need not tell me that I have been presumptuous. I see it now. But it was my one hope in life—I had nothing left; and I loved you."

His voice sank; he still stood with his face averted; a bitter silence fell upon him. For the moment he thought of the many losses and sorrows that he had experienced, and it seemed to him that this was the bitterest one of all. Elizabeth sat like a statue; her face was pale, her under-lip bitten, her hands tightly clasped together. At the end of some minutes' silence she roused herself to speak. There was an accent of hurt pride in her voice, but there was a tremor, too.

"I gave you no reason to think so, Mr. Stretton," she said.

"No," he answered, still without turning round. "I see now; I made a mistake."

"That you should ever have made the mistake," said Elizabeth, slowly, "seems to me——"

She did not finish the sentence. She spoke so slowly that Brian found it easy to interrupt her. He turned and broke impetuously into the middle of her phrase.

"It seems an insult—I understand. But I do not mean it as an insult. I mean it only as a tribute to your exquisite goodness, your sweetness, which would not let me pass upon my way without a word of kindly greeting—and yet what can I say, for I did not misunderstand that kindliness. I was not such a fool as to do that! No, I never really hoped; I never thought that you could for a moment look at me; believe me when I say that, even in my wildest dreams, I knew myself to be far, infinitely far, below you, utterly unworthy of your love, Elizabeth."

"No, no," she murmured, "you must not say that."

"But I do say it, and I mean it. I only ask to be forgiven for that wild dream—it lasted but for a moment, and there was nothing in it that could have offended even you, I think; nothing but the love itself. And I believe in a man's right to love the woman who is the best, the most beautiful, the noblest on earth for him, even if she were the Queen herself! If you think that I hoped where I ought to have despaired, forgive me; but don't say you forgive me for merely loving you; I had the right, to do that."

She altered her attitude as he spoke. Her hands were now before her face, and he saw that the tears were trickling between her fingers. All the generosity of the man's nature was stirred at the sight.

"I am very sorry that I have distressed you," he said. "I am sorry that I spoke so roughly—so hastily—at first. Trust me when I say that I will not offend in the same way again."

She lifted her face a little, and tried to wipe away her tears. "I am not offended, Mr. Stretton," she said. "You mistake me—I am only sorry—deeply sorry—that I—if I—have misled you in any way."

"Oh, you did not mislead me, Miss Murray," replied Brian, gently; "it was my own folly that was to blame. But since I have spoken, may I say something more? I should like, if possible, to justify myself a little in your eyes."

She bowed her head. "Will you not sit down?" she said, softly. "Say what you like; or, at least, what you think best."

He did not sit down exactly, but he came back to the stone on which he had been sitting at her feet, and dropped on one knee upon it.

"Let me speak to you in this way, as a culprit should speak," he said, with a faint smile which had in it a gleam of some slightly ironical feeling, "and then you can pardon or condemn me as you choose."

"If you feel like a culprit you condemn yourself," said Elizabeth, lifting her eyes to his.

"I do not feel like a culprit, Miss Murray. I have, as I said before, a perfect right to love you if I choose——" Elizabeth's eyes fell, and the colour stole into her cheeks—"I would maintain that right against all the world. But I want you to be merciful: I want you to listen for a little while——"

"Not to anything that I ought not to hear, Mr. Stretton."

"No: to nothing that would wrong Mr. Percival Heron even by a thought. Only—it is a selfish wish of mine; but I have been misjudged a good deal in my life, and I do not want you to misjudge me—I should like you to understand how it was that I dared—yes, I dared—to love you. May I speak?"

"I don't know whether I ought to listen. I think I ought to go," said Elizabeth, with an irrepressible little sob. "No, do not speak—I cannot bear it."

"But in justice to me you ought to listen," said Brian, gently, and yet firmly. He laid one hand upon hers, and prevented her from rising. "A few words only," he said, in pleading tones. "Forgive me if I say I must go on. Forgive me if I say you must listen. It is for the last—and the only—time."

With a great sigh she sank back upon the stone seat from which she had tried to rise. Brian still held her hand. She did not draw it away. The lines of her face were all soft and relaxed; her usual clearness of purpose had deserted her. She did not know what to do.

"If you had loved me, Elizabeth—let me call you Elizabeth just for once; I will not ask to do it again—or if you had even been free—I would have told you my whole history from beginning to end, and let you judge how far I was justified in taking another name and living the life I do. But I won't lay that burden upon you now. It would not be fair. I think that you would have agreed with me—but it is not worth while to tell you now."

"I am sure that you would not have acted as you did without a good and honourable motive," said Elizabeth, trembling, though she did not know why.

"I acted more on impulse than on principle, I am afraid,", he answered. "I was in great trouble, and it seemed easier—but I saw no reason afterwards to change my decision. Elizabeth, my friends think me dead, and I want them to think so still. I had been accused of a crime which I did not commit—not publicly accused, but accused in my own home by one—one who ought to have known me better; and I had inadvertently—by pure accident, remember—brought great misery and sorrow upon my house. In all this—I could swear it to you, Elizabeth—I was not to blame. Can you believe my word?"

"I can, I do."

"God bless you for saying so, my love—the one love of my life—Elizabeth! Forgive me: I will not say it again. To add to my troubles, then, I found reason to believe that I had no right to the name I bore, that I was of a different family, a different race, altogether; that it would simplify the disposal of certain property if I were dead; and so—I died. I disappeared. I can never again take the name that once was mine."

He said all this, but no suspicion of the truth crossed Elizabeth's mind. That she was the person who had benefited by his disappearance was as far from her thoughts as from Brian's at that moment. That he was the Brian Luttrell of whom she had so often heard, whose death in the Alps had seemed so certain that even the law courts had been satisfied that she might rightfully inherit his possessions, that he—John Stretton, the boys' tutor—could be this dead cousin of her's, was too incredible a thought ever to occur to her. She felt nothing but sorrow for his past troubles, and a conviction that he was perfectly in the right.

"But you are deceiving your friends," she said.

"For their good, as I firmly believe," answered Brian, sorrowfully. "If I went back to them, I should cause a great deal of confusion and distress: I should make my so-called heirs uncomfortable and unhappy, and, as far as I can see, I should have no right to the property that they would not consent to retain if I were living."

"Yes—if I am dead, and if no one else appears to claim it. It is a complicated business, and one that would take some time to explain. Let it suffice that I was utterly hopeless, utterly miserable, when I cast away what had always seemed to me to be my birthright; that I was then for many months very ill; and that, when you met me in Italy, I was just winning my way back to health, and repose of mind and body. And then—do you remember how you looked and spoke to me? Of course, you do not know. You were good, and sweet, and kind: you stretched out your hand to aid a fallen man, for I was poorer and more friendless than you knew; and from the moment when you said you trusted me, as we sat together on the bench upon the cliffs my whole soul went out to you, Elizabeth, and I loved you as I never had loved before—as I never shall love again."

"In time," she murmured, "you will learn to care for someone else, in time you will forget me."

"Forget you! I can never forget you, Elizabeth. Your trust in me—an unknown, friendless man, your goodness to me, your sweet pity for me, will never be forgotten. Can you wonder if I loved you, and if I thought that my love must surely have betrayed itself? I fancied that you guessed it——"

"No, no," she said, hurriedly. "I did not guess. I did not think. I only knew that you were a kind friend to me, and taught me and helped me in many ways. I have been often very lonely—I never had a friend."

"Is Percival Heron, then, no friend to you?" he asked, with something of indignant sternness in his voice.

"Ah, yes, he is a friend; but not—not—I cannot tell you what he is——"

"But you love him?" cried Brian, the sternness changing to anguish, as the doubt first presented itself to him. "Elizabeth, do not tell me that you have promised yourself to a man that you do not love! I may be miserable; but do not let me think that you will be miserable, too."

He caught both her hands in his and looked her steadily in the face. "I have heard them say that you never told a lie in all your life," he went on. "Speak the truth still, Elizabeth, and tell me whether you love Percival Heron as a woman should love a man! Tell me the truth."

She shrank a little at first, and tried to take her hands away. But when she found that Brian's clasp was firm, she drew herself up and looked him in the face with eyes that were full of an unutterable sadness, but also of a resolution which nothing on earth could shake.

"You have no right to ask me the question," she said; "and I have no right to give you any answer."

But something in her troubled face told him what that answer would have been.