The scandal affecting the Reverend Mr. Arbroath's reputation which had been so graphically related by Twitt, turned out to be true in every respect, and though considerable efforts were made to hush it up, the outraged feelings of the reverend gentleman's wife were not to be silenced. Proceedings for divorce were commenced, and it was understood that there would be no defence. In due course the "big 'edlines" which announced to the world in general that one of the most imperious "High" Anglicans of the Church had not only slipped from moral rectitude, but had intensified that sin by his publicly aggressive assumption of hypocritical virtue, appeared in the newspapers, and the village of Weircombe for about a week was brought into a certain notoriety which was distinctly displeasing to itself. The arrival of the "dailies" became a terror to it, and a general feeling of devout thankfulness was experienced by the whole community, when the rightful spiritual shepherd of the little flock returned from his sojourn abroad to take up the reigns of government, and restore law and order to his tiny distracted commonwealth. Fortunately for the peace of Weircombe, the frantic rush of social events, and incidents in which actual "news" of interest has no part, is too persistent and overwhelming for any one occurrence out of the million to occupy more than a brief passing notice, which is in its turn soon forgotten, and the "Scandalous Conduck of a Clergyman," as Mr. Twitt had put it, was soon swept aside in other examples of "Scandalous Conduck" among all sorts and conditions of men and women, which, caught up by flying Rumour with her thousand false and blatant tongues, is the sort of useless and pernicious stuff which chiefly keeps the modern press alive. Even the fact that the Reverend Mr. Arbroath was summarily deprived of his living and informed by the Bishop in the usual way, that his services would no longer be required, created very little interest. Some months later a small journalistic flourish was heard on behalf of the discarded gentleman, upon the occasion of his being "received" into the Church of Rome, with all his sins forgiven,—but so far as Weircombe was concerned, the story of himself and his "fav'rite" was soon forgotten, and his very name ceased to be uttered. The little community resumed its normal habit of cheerful attendance at Church every Sunday, satisfied to have shown to the ecclesiastical powers that be, the fact that "'Igh Jinks" in religion would never be tolerated amongst them; and the life of Weircombe went on in the usual placid way, divided between work and prayer, and governed by the twin forces of peace and contentment.

Meantime, the secret spells of Mother Nature were silently at work in the development and manifestation of the Spring. The advent of April came like a revelation of divine beauty to the little village nestled in the "coombe," and garlanded it from summit to base with tangles of festal flowers. The little cottage gardens and higher orchards were smothered in the snow of plum and cherry-blossom,—primroses carpeted the woods which crowned the heights of the hills, and the long dark spikes of bluebells, ready to bud and blossom, thrust themselves through the masses of last year's dead leaves, side by side with the uncurling fronds of the bracken and fern. Thrushes and blackbirds piped with cheerful persistence among the greening boughs of the old chestnut which shaded Mary Deane's cottage, and children roaming over the grassy downs above the sea, brought news of the skylark's song and the cuckoo's call. Many a time in these lovely, fresh and sunny April days Angus Reay would persuade Mary away from her lace-mending to take long walks with him across the downs, or through the woods—and on each occasion when they started on these rambles together, David Helmsley would sit and watch for their return in a curious sort of timorous suspense—wondering, hoping, and fearing,—eager for the moment when Angus should speak his mind to the woman he loved, and yet always afraid lest that woman should, out of some super-sensitive feeling, put aside and reject that love, even though she might long to accept it. However, day after day passed and nothing happened. Either Angus hesitated, or else Mary was unapproachable—and Helmsley worried himself in vain. They, who did not know his secret, could not of course imagine the strained condition of mind in which their undeclared feelings kept him,—and and he found himself more perplexed and anxious over their apparent uncertainty than he had ever been over some of his greatest financial schemes. Facts and figures can to a certain extent be relied upon, but the fluctuating humours and vagaries of a man and woman in love with each other are beyond the most precise calculations of the skilled mathematician. For it often happens that when they seem to be coldest they are warmest—and cases have been known where they have taken the greatest pains to avoid each other at a time when they have most deeply longed to be always together. It was during this uncomfortable period of uneasiness and hesitation for Helmsley, that Angus and Mary were perhaps most supremely happy. Dimly, sweetly conscious that the gate of Heaven was open for them and that it was Love, the greatest angel of all God's mighty host, that waited for them there, they hovered round and round upon the threshold of the glory, eager, yet afraid to enter. Up in the primrose-carpeted woods together they talked, like good friends, of a thousand things,—of the weather, of the promise of fruit in the orchards, of the possibilities of a good fishing year, and of the general beauty of the scenery around Weircombe. Then, of course, there was the book which Angus was writing—a book now nearing completion. It was a very useful book, because it gave them a constant and safe topic of conversation. Many chapters were read and re-read—many passages written and re-written for Mary's hearing and criticism,—and it may at once be said that what had at first been merely clever, brilliant, and intellectual writing, was now becoming not so much a book as an artistic creation, through which the blood and colour of human life pulsed and flowed, giving it force and vitality. Sometimes they persuaded Helmsley to accompany them on some of their shorter rambles,—but he was not strong enough to walk far, and he often left them half-way up the "coombe," returning to the cottage alone. Mary had frequently expressed a great wish to take him to a favourite haunt of hers, which she called the "Giant's Castle"—but he was unable to make the steep ascent—so on one fine afternoon she took Angus there instead. "The Giant's Castle" had no recognised name among the Weircombe villagers save this one which Mary had bestowed upon it, and which the children repeated after her so often that it seemed highly probable that the title would stick to it for ever. "Up Giant's Castle way" was quite a familiar direction to any one ascending the "coombe," or following the precipitous and narrow path which wound along the edge of the cliffs to certain pastures where shepherds as well as sheep were in daily danger of landslips, and which to the ordinary pedestrian were signalled by a warning board as "Dangerous." But "Giant's Castle" itself was merely the larger and loftier of the two towering rocks which guarded the sea-front of Weircombe village. A tortuous grassy path led up to its very pinnacle, and from here, there was an unbroken descent as straight and smooth as a well-built wall, of several hundred feet sheer down into the sea, which at this point swirled round the rocky base in dark, deep, blackish-green eddies, sprinkled with trailing sprays of brown and crimson weed. It was a wonderful sight to look down upon this heaving mass of water, if it could be done without the head swimming and the eyes growing blind with the light of the sky striking sharp against the restless heaving of the waves, and Mary was one of the few who could stand fearlessly on almost the very brink of the parapet of the "Giant's Castle," and watch the sweep of the gulls as they flew under and above her, uttering their brief plaintive cries of gladness or anger as the wild wind bore them to and fro. When Reay first saw her run eagerly to the very edge, and stand there, a light, bold, beautiful figure, with the wind fluttering her garments and blowing loose a long rippling tress of her amber-brown hair, he could not refrain from an involuntary cry of terror, and an equally involuntary rush to her side with his arms outstretched. But as she turned her sweet face and grave blue eyes upon him there was something in the gentle dignity and purity of her look that held him back, abashed, and curiously afraid. She made him feel the power of her sex,—a power invincible when strengthened by modesty and reserve,—and the easy licence which modern women, particularly those of a degraded aristocracy, permit to men in both conversation and behaviour nowadays, would have found no opportunity of being exercised in her presence. So, though his impulse moved him to catch her round the waist and draw her with forcible tenderness away from the dizzy eminence on which she stood, he dared not presume so far, and merely contented himself with a bounding stride which brought him to the same point of danger as herself, and the breathless exclamation—

"Miss Mary! Take care!"

She smiled.

"Oh, there is nothing to be frightened of!" she said. "Often and often I have come here quite alone and looked down upon the sea in all weathers. Just after my father's death, this used to be the place I loved best, where I could feel that I was all by myself with God, who alone understood my sadness. At night, when the moon is at the full, it is very beautiful here. One looks down into the water and sees a world of waving light, and then, looking up to the sky, there is a heaven of stars!—and all the weary ways of life are forgotten! The angels seem so near!"

A silent agreement with this latter statement shone in Reay's eyes as he looked at her.

"It's good sometimes to find a woman who still believes in angels," he said.

"Don't you believe in them?"

"Implicitly,—with all my heart and soul!" And again his eyes were eloquent.

A wave of rosy colour flitted over her face, and shading her eyes from the strong glare of the sun, she gazed across the sea.

"I wish dear old David could see this glorious sight!" she said. "But he's not strong—and I'm afraid—I hardly like to think it—that he's weaker than he knows."

"Poor old chap!" said Angus, gently. "Any way, you've done all you can for him, and he's very grateful. I hope he'll last a few years longer."

"I hope so too," she answered quickly. "For I should miss him very much. I've grown quite to love him."

"I think he feels that," and Angus seated himself on a jutting crag of the "Giant's Castle" and prepared for the utterance of something desperate. "Any one would, you know!"

She made no reply. Her gaze was fixed on the furthest silver gleaming line of the ocean horizon.

"Any one would be bound to feel it, if you loved—if you were fond of him," he went on in rather a rambling way. "It would make all the difference in the world——"

She turned towards him quickly with a smile. Her breathing was a little hurried.

"Shall we go back now?" she said.

"Certainly!—if—if you wish—but isn't it rather nice up here?" he pleaded.

"We'll come another day," and she ran lightly down the first half of the grassy path which had led them to the summit. "But I mustn't waste any more time this afternoon."

"Why? Any pressing demands for mended lace?" asked Angus, as he followed her.

"Oh no! Not particularly so. Only when the firm that employs me, sends any very specially valuable stuff worth five or six hundred pounds or so, I never like to keep it longer that I can help. And the piece I'm at work on is valued at a thousand guineas."

"Wouldn't you like to wear it yourself?" he asked suddenly, with a laugh.

"I? I wouldn't wear it for the world! Do you know, Mr. Reay, that I almost hate beautiful lace! I admire the work and design, of course—no one could help that—but every little flower and leaf in the fabric speaks to me of so many tired eyes growing blind over the intricate stitches—so many weary fingers, and so many aching hearts—all toiling for the merest pittance! For it is not the real makers of the lace who get good profit by their work, it is the merchants who sell it that have all the advantage. If I were a great lady and a rich one, I would refuse to buy any lace from the middleman,—I would seek out the actual poor workers, and give them my orders, and see that they were comfortably fed and housed as long as they worked for me."

"And it's just ten chances to one whether they would be grateful to you——" Angus began. She silenced him by a slight gesture.

"But I shouldn't care whether they were grateful or not," she said. "I should be content to know that I had done what was right and just to my fellow-creatures."

They had no more talk that day, and Helmsley, eagerly expectant, and watching them perhaps more intently than a criminal watches the face of a judge, was as usual disappointed. His inward excitement, always suppressed, made him somewhat feverish and irritable, and Mary, all unconscious of the cause, stayed in to "take care of him" as she said, and gave up her afternoon walks with Angus for a time altogether, which made the situation still more perplexing, and to Helmsley almost unbearable. Yet there was nothing to be done. He felt it would be unwise to speak of the matter in any way to her—she was a woman who would certainly find it difficult to believe that she had won, or could possibly win the love of a lover at her age;—she might even resent it,—no one could tell. And so the days of April paced softly on, in bloom and sunlight, till May came in with a blaze of colour and radiance, and the last whiff of cold wind blew itself away across the sea. The "biting nor'easter," concerning which the comic press gives itself up to senseless parrot-talk with each recurrence of the May month, no matter how warm and beautiful that month may be, was a "thing foregone and clean forgotten,"—and under the mild and beneficial influences of the mingled sea and moorland air, Helmsley gained a temporary rush of strength, and felt so much better, that he was able to walk down to the shore and back again once or twice a a day, without any assistance, scarcely needing even the aid of his stick to lean upon. The shore remained his favourite haunt; he was never tired of watching the long waves roll in, edged with gleaming ribbons of foam, and roll out again, with the musical clatter of drawn pebbles and shells following the wake of the backward sweeping ripple,—and he made friends with many of the Weircombe fisherfolk, who were always ready to chat with him concerning themselves and the difficulties and dangers of their trade. The children, too, were all eager to run after "old David," as they called him,—and many an afternoon he would sit in the sun, with a group of these hardy little creatures gathered about him, listening entranced, while he told them strange stories of foreign lands and far travels,—travels which men took "in search of gold"—as he would say, with a sad little smile—"gold, which is not nearly so much use as it seems to be."

"But can't us buy everything with plenty of money?" asked a seven-year-old urchin, on one of these occasions, looking solemnly up into his face with a pair of very round, big brown eyes.

"Not everything, my little man," he answered, smoothing the rough locks of the small inquirer with a very tender hand. "I could not buy you, for instance! Your mother wouldn't sell you!"

The child laughed.

"Oh, no! But I didn't mean me!"

"I know you didn't mean me!" and Helmsley smiled. "But suppose some one put a thousand golden sovereigns in a bag on one side, and you in your rough little torn clothes on the other, and asked your mother which she would like best to have—what do you think she would say?"

"She'd 'ave me!" and a smile of confident satisfaction beamed on the grinning little face like a ray of sunshine.

"Of course she would! The bag of sovereigns would be no use at all compared to you. So you see we cannot buy everything with money."

"But—most things?" queried the boy—"Eh?"

"Most things—perhaps," Helmsley answered, with a slight sigh. "But those 'most things' are not things of much value even when you get them. You can never buy love,—and that is the only real treasure,—the treasure of Heaven!"

The child looked at him, vaguely impressed by his sudden earnestness, but scarcely understanding his words.

"Wouldn't you like a little money?" And the inquisitive young eyes fixed themselves on his face with an expression of tenderest pity. "You'se a very poor old man!"

Helmsley laughed, and again patted the little curly head.

"Yes—yes—a very poor old man!" he repeated. "But I don't want any more than I've got!"

One afternoon towards mid-May, a strong yet soft sou'wester gale blew across Weircombe, bringing with it light showers of rain, which, as they fell upon the flowering plants and trees, brought out all the perfume of the spring in such rich waves of sweetness, that, though as yet there were no roses, and the lilac was only just budding out, the whole countryside seemed full of the promised fragrance of the blossoms that were yet to be. The wind made scenery in the sky, heaping up snowy masses of cloud against the blue in picturesque groups resembling Alpine heights, and fantastic palaces of fairyland, and when,—after a glorious day of fresh and invigorating air which swept both sea and hillside, a sudden calm came with the approach of sunset, the lovely colours of earth and heaven, melting into one another, where so pure and brilliant, that Mary, always a lover of Nature, could not resist Angus Reay's earnest entreaty that she would accompany him to see the splendid departure of the orb of day, in all its imperial panoply of royal gold and purple.

"It will be a beautiful sunset," he said—"And from the 'Giant's Castle' rock, a sight worth seeing."

Helmsley looked at him as he spoke, and looking, smiled.

"Do go, my dear," he urged—"And come back and tell me all about it."

"I really think you want me out of your way, David!" she said laughingly. "You seem quite happy when I leave you!"

"You don't get enough fresh air," he answered evasively. "And this is just the season of the year when you most need it."

She made no more demur, and putting on the simple straw hat, which, plainly trimmed with a soft knot of navy-blue ribbon, was all her summer head-gear, she left the house with Reay. After a while, Helmsley also went out for his usual lonely ramble on the shore, from whence he could see the frowning rampart of the "Giant's Castle" above him, though it was impossible to discern any person who might be standing at its summit, on account of the perpendicular crags that intervened. From both shore and rocky height the scene was magnificent. The sun, dipping slowly down towards the sea, shot rays of glory around itself in an aureole of gold, which, darting far upwards, and spreading from north to south, pierced the drifting masses of floating fleecy cloud like arrows, and transfigured their whiteness to splendid hues of fiery rose and glowing amethyst, while just between the falling Star of Day and the ocean, a rift appeared of smooth and delicate watery green, touched here and there with flecks of palest pink and ardent violet. Up on the parapet of the "Giant's Castle," all this loyal panoply of festal colour was seen at its best, sweeping in widening waves across the whole surface of the Heavens; and there was a curious stillness everywhere, as though earth itself were conscious of a sudden and intense awe. Standing on the dizzy edge of her favourite point of vantage, Mary Deane gazed upon the sublime spectacle with eyes so passionately tender in their far-away expression, that, to Angus Reay, who watched those eyes with much more rapt admiration than he bestowed upon the splendour of the sunset, they looked like the eyes of some angel, who, seeing heaven all at once revealed, recognised her native home, and with the recognition, was prepared for immediate flight And on the impulse which gave him this fantastic thought, he said softly—

"Don't go away, Miss Mary! Stay with us—with me—as long as you can!"

She turned her head and looked at him, smiling.

"Why, what do you mean? I'm not going away anywhere—who told you that I was?"

"No one,"—and Angus drew a little nearer to her—"But just now you seemed so much a part of the sea and the sky, leaning forward and giving yourself entirely over to the glory of the moment, that I felt as if you might float away from me altogether." Here he paused—then added in a lower tone—"And I could not bear to lose you!"

She was silent. But her face grew pale, and her lips quivered. He saw the tremor pass over her, and inwardly rejoiced,—his own nerves thrilling as he realised that, after all, if—if she loved him, he was the master of her fate.

"We've been such good friends," he went on, dallying with his own desire to know the best or worst—"Haven't we?"

"Indeed, yes!" she answered, somewhat faintly. "And I hope we always will be."

"I hope so, too!" he answered in quite a matter-of-fact way. "You see I'm rather a clumsy chap with women——"

She smiled a little.

"Are you?"

"Yes,—I mean I never get on with them quite as well as other fellows do somehow—and—er—and—what I want to say, Miss Mary, is that I've never got on with any woman so well as I have with you—and——"

He paused. At no time in his life had he been at such a loss for language. His heart was thumping in the most extraordinary fashion, and he prodded the end of his walking-stick into the ground with quite a ferocious earnestness. She was still looking at him and still smiling.

"And," he went on ramblingly, "that's why I hope we shall always be good friends."

As he uttered this perfectly commonplace remark, he cursed himself for a fool. "What's the matter with me?" he inwardly demanded. "My tongue seems to be tied up!—or I'm going to have lockjaw! It's awful! Something better than this has got to come out of me somehow!" And acting on a brilliant flash of inspiration which suddenly seemed to have illumined his brain, he said—

"The fact is, I want to get married. I'm thinking about it."

How quiet she was! She seemed scarcely to breathe.

"Yes?" and the word, accentuated without surprise and merely as a question, was spoken very gently. "I do hope you have found some one who loves you with all her heart!"

She turned her head away, and Angus saw, or thought he saw, the bright tears brim up from under her lashes and slowly fall. Without another instant's pause he rushed upon his destiny, and in that rush grew strong.

"Yes, Mary!" he said, and moving to her side he caught her hand in his own—"I dare to think I have found that some one! I believe I have! I believe that a woman whom I love with all my heart, loves me in return! If I am mistaken, then I've lost the whole world! Tell me, Mary! Am I wrong?"

She could not speak,—the tears were thick in her eyes.

"Mary—dear, dearest Mary!" and he pressed the hand he held—"You know I love you!—you know——"

She turned her face towards him—a pale, wondering face,—and tried to smile.

"How do I know?" she murmured tremulously—"How can I believe? I'm past the time for love!"

For all answer he drew her into his arms.

"Ask Love itself about that, Mary!" he said. "Ask my heart, which beats for you,—ask my soul, which longs for you!—ask me, who worship you, you, best and dearest of women, about the time for love! That time for us is now, Mary!—now and always!"

Then came a silence—that eloquent silence which surpasses all speech. Love has no written or spoken language—it is incommunicable as God. And Mary, whose nature was open and pure as the daylight, would not have been the woman she was if she could have expressed in words the deep tenderness and passion which at that supreme moment silently responded to her lover's touch, her lover's embrace. And when,—lifting her face between his two hands, he gazed at it long and earnestly, a smile, shining between tears, brightened her sweet eyes.

"You are looking at me as if you never saw me before, Angus!" she said, her voice sinking softly, as she pronounced his name.

"Positively, I don't think I ever have!" he answered "Not as you are now, Mary! I have never seen you look so beautiful! I have never seen you before as my love! my wife!"

She drew herself a little away from him.

"But, are you sure you are doing right for yourself?" she asked—"You know you could marry anybody——"

He laughed, and threw one arm round her waist.

"Thanks!—I don't want to marry 'anybody'—I want to marry you! The question is, will you have me?"

She smiled.

"If I thought it would be for your good——"

Stooping quickly he kissed her.

"That's very much for my good!" he declared. "And now that I've told you my mind, you must tell me yours. Do you love me, Mary?"

"I'm afraid you know that already too well!" she said, with a wistful radiance in her eyes.

"I don't!" he declared—"I'm not at all sure of you——"

She interrupted him.

"Are you sure of yourself?"

"Mary!"

"Ah, don't look so reproachful! It's only for you I'm thinking! You see I'm nothing but a poor working woman of what is called the lower classes—I'm not young, and I'm not clever. Now you've got genius; you'll be a great man some day, quite soon perhaps—you may even become rich as well as famous, and then perhaps you'll be sorry you ever met me——"

"In that case I'll call upon the public hangman and ask him to give me a quick despatch," he said promptly; "Though I shouldn't be worth the expense of a rope!"

"Angus, you won't be serious!"

"Serious? I never was more serious in my life! And I want my question answered."

"What question?"

"Do you love me? Yes or no!"

He held her close and looked her full in the face as he made this peremptory demand. Her cheeks grew crimson, but she met his searching gaze frankly.

"Ah, though you are a man, you are a spoilt child!" she said. "You know I love you more than I can say!—and yet you want me to tell you what can never be told!"

He caught her to his heart, and kissed her passionately.

"That's enough!" he said—"For if you love me, Mary, your love is love indeed!—it's no sham; and like all true and heavenly things, it will never change. I believe, if I turned out to be an utter wastrel, you'd love me still!"

"Of course I should!" she answered.

"Of course you would!" and he kissed her again. "Mary, my Mary, if there were more women like you, there would be more men!—men in the real sense of the word—manly men, whose love and reverence for women would make them better and braver in the battle of life. Do you know, I can do anything now, with you to love me! I don't suppose,"—and here he unconsciously squared his shoulders—"I really don't suppose there is a single difficulty in my way that I won't conquer!"

She smiled, leaning against him.

"If you feel like that, I am very happy!" she said.

As she spoke, she raised her eyes to the sky, and uttered an involuntary exclamation.

"Look, look!" she cried—"How glorious!"

The heavens above them were glowing red,—forming a dome of burning rose, deepening in hue towards the sea, where the outer rim of the nearly vanished sun was slowly disappearing below the horizon—and in the centre of this ardent glory, a white cloud, shaped like a dove with outspread wings, hung almost motionless. The effect was marvellously beautiful, and Angus, full of his own joy, was more than ever conscious of the deep content of a spirit attuned to the infinite joy of nature.

"It is like the Holy Grail," he said, and, with one arm round the woman he loved, he softly quoted the lines:—

"And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail,
Rose-red, with beatings in it as if alive!"

"That is Tennyson," she said.

"Yes—that is Tennyson—the last great poet England can boast," he answered. "The poet who hated hate and loved love."

"All poets are like that," she murmured.

"Not all, Mary! Some of the modern ones hate love and love hate!"

"Then they are not poets," she said. "They would not see any beauty in that lovely sky—and they would not understand——"

"Us!" finished Angus. "And I assure you, Mary at the present moment, we are worth understanding!"

She laughed softly.

"Do we understand ourselves?" she asked.

"Of course we don't! If we did, we should probably be miserable. It's just because we are mysterious one to another, that we are so happy. No human being should ever try to analyse the fact of existence. It's enough that we exist—and that we love each other. Isn't it, Mary?"

"Enough? It is too much,—too much happiness altogether for me, at any rate," she said. "I can't believe in it yet! I can't really, Angus! Why should you love me?"

"Why, indeed!" And his eyes grew dark and warm with tenderness—"Why should you love me?"

"Ah, there's so much to love in you!" and she made her heart's confession with a perfectly naÏve candour. "I daresay you don't see it yourself, but I do!"

"And I assure you, Mary," he declared, with a whimsical solemnity, "that there's ever so much more to love in you! I know you don't see it for yourself, but I do!"

Then they laughed together like two children, and all constraint was at an end between them. Hand in hand they descended the grassy steep of the "Giant's Castle"—charmed with one another, and at every step of the way seeing some new delight which they seemed to have missed before. The crimson sunset burned about them like the widening petals of a rose in fullest bloom,—earth caught the fervent glory and reflected it back again in many varying tints of brilliant colour, shading from green to gold, from pink to amethyst—and as they walked through the splendid vaporous light, it was as though they were a living part of the glory of the hour.

"We must tell David," said Mary, as they reached the bottom of the hill. "Poor old dear! I think he will be glad."

"I know he will!" and Angus smiled confidently. "He's been waiting for this ever since Christmas Day!"

Mary's eyes opened in wonderment.

"Ever since Christmas Day?"

"Yes. I told him then that I loved you, Mary,—that I wanted to ask you to marry me,—but that I felt I was too poor——"

Her hand stole through his arm.

"Too poor, Angus! Am I not poor also?"

"Not as poor as I am," he answered, promptly possessing himself of the caressing hand. "In fact, you're quite rich compared to me. You've got a house, and you've got work, which brings you in enough to live upon,—now I haven't a roof to call my own, and my stock of money is rapidly coming to an end. I've nothing to depend upon but my book,—and if I can't sell that when it's finished, where am I? I'm nothing but a beggar—less well off than I was as a wee boy when I herded cattle. And I'm not going to marry you——"

She stopped in her walk and looked at him with a smile.

"Oh Angus! I thought you were!"

He kissed the hand he held.

"Don't make fun of me, Mary! I won't allow it! I am going to marry you!—but I'm not going to marry you till I've sold my book. I don't suppose I'll get more than a hundred pounds for it, but that will do to start housekeeping together on. Won't it?"

"I should think it would indeed!" and she lifted her head with quite a proud gesture—"It will be a fortune!"

"Of course," he went on, "the cottage is yours, and all that is in it. I can't add much to that, because to my mind, it's just perfect. I never want any sweeter, prettier little home. But I want to work for you, Mary, so that you'll not have to work for yourself, you understand?"

She nodded her head gravely.

"I understand! You want me to sit with my hands folded in my lap, doing nothing at all, and getting lazy and bad-tempered."

"Now you know I don't!" he expostulated.

"Yes, you do, Angus! If you don't want me to work, you want me to be a perfectly useless and tiresome woman! Why, my dearest, now that you love me, I should like to work all the harder! If you think the cottage pretty, I shall try to make it even prettier. And I don't want to give up all my lace-mending. It's just as pleasant and interesting as the fancy-work which the rich ladies play with You must really let me go on working, Angus! I shall be a perfectly unbearable person if you don't!"

She looked so sweetly at him, that as they were at the moment passing under the convenient shadow of a tree he took her in his arms and kissed her.

"When you become a perfectly unbearable person," he said, "then it will be time for another deluge, and a general renovation of human kind. You shall work if you like, my Mary, but you shall not work for me. See?"

A tender smile lingered in her eyes.

"I see!" and linking her arm through his again, she moved on with him over the thyme-scented grass, her dress gently sweeping across the stray clusters of golden cowslips that nodded here and there. "I will work for myself, you will work for me, and old David will work for both of us!"

They laughed joyously.

"Poor old David!" said Angus. "He's been wondering why I have not spoken to you before,—he declared he couldn't understand it. But then I wasn't quite sure whether you liked me at all——"

"Weren't you?" and her glance was eloquent.

"No—and I asked him to find out!"

She looked at him in a whimsical wonderment.

"You asked him to find out? And did he?"

"He seems to think so. At any rate, he gave me courage to speak."

Mary grew suddenly meditative.

"Do you know, Angus," she said, "I think old David was sent to me for a special purpose. Some great and good influence guided him to me—I am sure of it. You don't know all his history. Shall I tell it to you?"

"Yes—do tell me—but I think I know it. Was he not a former old friend of your father's?"

"No—that's a story I had to invent to satisfy the curiosity of the villagers. It would never have done to let them know that he was only an old tramp whom I found ill and nearly dying out on the hills during a great storm we had last summer. There had been heavy thunder and lightning all the afternoon, and when the storm ceased I went to my door to watch the clearing off of the clouds, and I heard a dog yelping pitifully on the hill just above the coombe. I went out to see what was the matter, and there I found an old man lying quite unconscious on the wet grass, looking as if he were dead, and a little dog—you know Charlie?—guarding him and barking as loudly as it could. Well, I brought him back to life, and took him home and nursed him—and—that's all. He told me his name was David—and that he had been 'on the tramp' to Cornwall to find a friend. You know the rest."

"Then he is really quite a stranger to you, Mary?" said Angus wonderingly.

"Quite. He never knew my father. But I am sure if Dad had been alive, he would have rescued him just as I did, and then he would have been his 'friend,'—he could not have helped himself. That's the way I argued it out to my own heart and conscience."

Angus looked at her.

"You darling!" he said suddenly.

She laughed.

"That doesn't come in!" she said.

"It does come in! It comes in everywhere!" he declared. "There's no other woman in the world that would have done so much for a poor forlorn old tramp like that, adrift on the country roads. And you exposed yourself to some risk, too, Mary! He might have been a dangerous character!"

"Poor dear, he didn't look it," she said gently—"and he hasn't proved it. Everything has gone well for me since I did my best for him. It was even through him that you came to know me, Angus!—think of that! Blessings on the dear old man!—I'm sure he must be an angel in disguise!"

He smiled.

"Well, we never know!" he said. "Angels certainly don't come to us with all the celestial splendour which is supposed to belong to them—they may perhaps choose the most unlikely way in which to make their errands known. I have often—especially lately—thought that I have seen an angel looking at me out of the eyes of a woman!"

"You will talk poetry!" protested Mary.

"I'm not talking it—I'm living it!" he answered.

There was nothing to be said to this. He was an incorrigible lover, and remonstrances were in vain.

"You must not tell David's real history to any of the villagers," said Mary presently, as they came in sight of her cottage—"I wouldn't like them to know it."

"They shall never know it so far as I am concerned," he answered. "He's been a good friend to me—and I wouldn't cause him a moment's trouble. I'd like to make him happier if I could!"

"I don't think that's possible,"—and her eyes were clouded for a moment with a shadow of melancholy—"You see he has no money, except the little he earns by basket-making, and he's very far from strong. We must be kind to him, Angus, as long as he needs kindness."

Angus agreed, with sundry ways of emphasis that need not here be narrated, as they composed a formula which could not be rendered into set language. Arriving at the cottage they found the door open, and no one in the kitchen,—but on the table lay two sprigs of sweetbriar. Angus caught sight of them at once.

"Mary! See! Don't you think he knows?"

She stood hesitating, with a lovely wavering colour in her cheeks.

"Don't you remember," he went on, "you gave me a bit of sweetbriar on the evening of the first day we ever met?"

"I remember!" and her voice was very soft and tremulous.

"I have that piece of sweetbriar still," he said; "I shall never part with it. And old David must have known all about it!"

He took up the little sprays set ready for them, and putting one in his own buttonhole, fastened the other in her bodice with a loving, lingering touch.

"It's a good emblem," he said, kissing her—"Sweet Briar—sweet Love!—not without thorns, which are the safety of the rose!"

A slow step sounded on the garden path, and they saw Helmsley approaching, with the tiny "Charlie" running at his heels. Pausing on the threshold of the open door, he looked at them with a questioning smile.

"Well, did you see the sunset?" he asked, "Or only each other?"

Mary ran to him, and impulsively threw her arms about his neck.

"Oh David!" she said. "Dear old David! I am so happy!"

He was silent,—her gentle embrace almost unmanned him. He stretched out a hand to Angus, who grasped it warmly.

"So it's all right!" he said, in a low voice that trembled a little. "You've settled it together?"

"Yes—we've settled it, David!" Angus answered cheerily. "Give us your blessing!"

"You have that—God knows you have that!"—and as Mary, in her usual kindly way, took his hat and stick from him, keeping her arm through his as he went to his accustomed chair by the fireside, he glanced at her tenderly. "You have it with all my heart and soul, Mr. Reay!—and as for this dear lady who is to be your wife, all I can say is that you have won a treasure—yes, a treasure of goodness and sweetness and patience, and most heavenly kindness——"

His voice failed him, and the quick tears sprang to Mary's eyes.

"Now, David, please stop!" she said, with a look between affection and remonstrance. "You are a terrible flatterer! You mustn't spoil me."

"Nothing will spoil you!" he answered, quietly. "Nothing could spoil you! All the joy in the world, all the prosperity in the world, could not change your nature, my dear! Mr. Reay knows that as well as I do,—and I'm sure he thanks God for it! You are all love and gentleness, as a woman should be,—as all women would be if they were wise!"

He paused a moment, and then, raising himself a little more uprightly in his chair, looked at them both earnestly.

"And now that you have made up your minds to share your lives together," he went on, "you must not think that I will be so selfish as to stay on here and be a burden to you both. I should like to see you married, but after that I will go away——"

"You will do nothing of the sort!" said Mary, dropping on her knees beside him and lifting her serene eyes to his face. "You don't want to make us unhappy, do you? This is your home, as long as it is ours, remember! We would not have you leave us on any account, would we, Angus?"

"Indeed no!" answered Reay, heartily. "David, what are you talking about? Aren't you the cause of my knowing Mary? Didn't you bring me to this dear little cottage first of all? Don't I owe all my happiness to you? And you talk about going away! It's pretty evident you don't know what's good for you! Look here! If I'm good for anything at all, I'm good for hard work—and for that matter I may as well go in for the basket-making trade as well as the book-making profession. We've got Mary to work for, David!—and we'll both work for her—together!"

Helmsley turned upon him a face in which the expression was difficult to define.

"You really mean that?" he said.

"Really mean it! Of course I do! Why shouldn't I mean it?"

There was a moment's silence, and Helmsley, looking down on Mary as she knelt beside him, laid his hand caressingly on her hair.

"I think," he said gently, "that you are both too kind-hearted and impulsive, and that you are undertaking a task which should not be imposed upon you. You offer me a continued home with you after your marriage—but who am I that I should accept such generosity from you? I am not getting younger. Every day robs me of some strength—and my work—such work as I can do—will be of very little use to you. I may suffer from illness, which will cause you trouble and expense,—death is closer to me than life—and why should I die on your hands? It can only mean trouble for you if I stay on,—and though I am grateful to you with all my heart—more grateful than I can say"—and his voice trembled—"I know I ought to be unselfish,—and that the truest and best way to thank you for all you have done for me is to go away and leave you in peace and happiness——"

"We should not be happy without you, David!" declared Mary. "Can't you, won't you understand that we are both fond of you?"

"Fond of me!" And he smiled. "Fond of a useless old wreck who can scarcely earn a day's wage!"

"That's rather wide of the mark, David!" said Reay. "Mary's not the woman—and I'm sure I'm not the man—to care for any one on account of the money he can make. We like you for yourself,—so don't spoil this happiest day of our lives by suggesting any separation between us. Do you hear?"

"I hear!"—and a sudden brightness flashed up in Helmsley's sunken eyes, making them look almost young—"And I understand! I understand that though I am poor and old, and a stranger to you,—you are giving me friendship such as rich men often seek for and never find!—and I will try,—yes, I will try, God helping me,—to be worthy of your trust! If I stay with you——"

"There must be no 'if' in the case, David!" said Mary, smiling up at him.

He stroked her bright hair caressingly.

"Well, then, I will put it not 'if,' but as long as I stay with you," he answered—"as long as I stay with you, I will do all I can to show you how grateful I am to you,—and—and—I will never give you cause"—here he spoke more slowly, and with deliberate emphasis—"I will never give you cause to regret your confidence in me! I want you both to be glad—not sorry—that you spared a lonely old man a little of your affection!"

"We are glad, David!"—and Mary, as he lifted his hand from her head, caught it and kissed it lightly. "And we shall never be sorry! And here is Charlie"—and she picked up the little dog as she spoke and fondled it playfully,—"wondering why he is not included in the family party! For, after all, it is quite your affair, isn't it, Charlie? You were the cause of my finding David out on the hills!—and David was the cause of my knowing Angus—so if it hadn't been for you, nothing would have happened at all, Charlie!—and I should have been a lonely old maid all the days of my life! And I can't do anything to show my gratitude to you, you quaint wee soul, but give you a saucer of cream!"

She laughed, and springing up, began to prepare the tea. While she was moving quickly to and fro on this household business, Helmsley beckoned Reay to come closer to him.

"Speak frankly, Mr. Reay!" he said. "As the master of her heart, you are the master of her home. I can easily slip away—and tramping is not such hard work in summer time. Shall I go?"

"If you go, I shall start out and bring you back again," replied Reay, shaking his head at him determinedly. "You won't get so far but that I shall be able to catch you up in an hour! Please consider that you belong to us,—and that we have no intention of parting with you!"

Tears rose in Helmsley's eyes, and for a moment he covered them with his hand. Angus saw that he was deeply moved, and to avoid noticing him, especially as he was somewhat affected himself by the touching gratefulness of this apparently poor and lonely old man, went after Mary with all the pleasant ease and familiarity of an accepted lover, to help her bring in the tea. The tiny "Charlie," meanwhile, sitting on the hearth in a vigilantly erect attitude, with quivering nose pointed in a creamward direction, waited for the approach of the expected afternoon refreshment, trembling from head to tail with nervous excitement. And Helmsley, left alone for those few moments, presently mastered the strong emotion which made him long to tell his true history to the two sincere souls who, out of his whole life's experience, had alone proved themselves faithful to the spirit of a friendship wherein the claims of cash had no part. Regaining full command of himself, and determining to act out the part he had elected to play to whatever end should most fittingly arrive,—an end he could not as yet foresee,—he sat quietly in his chair as usual, gazing into the fire with the meditative patience and calm of old age, and silently building up in a waking dream the last story of his House of Love,—which now promised to be like that house spoken of in the Divine Parable—"And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house, and it fell not, for it was founded upon a rock." For as he knew,—and as we all must surely know,—the greatest rains and floods and winds of a world of sorrow, are powerless to destroy love, if love be true.