The dreariest season of the year had now set in, but frost and cold were very seldom felt severely in Weircombe. The little village lay in a deep warm hollow, and was thoroughly protected at the back by the hills, while in the front its shores were washed by the sea, which had a warming as well as bracing effect on the atmosphere. To invalids requiring an equable temperature, it would have been a far more ideal winter resort than any corner of the much-vaunted Riviera, except indeed for the fact that feeding and gambling dens were not among its attractions. To "society" people it would have proved insufferably dull, because society people, lacking intelligence to do anything themselves, always want everything done for them. Weircombe folk would not have understood that method of living. To them it seemed proper and reasonable that men, and women too, should work for what they ate. The theory that only a few chosen persons, not by any means estimable either as to their characters or their abilities, should eat what others were starved for, would not have appealed to them. They were a small and unimportant community, but their ideas of justice and principles of conduct were very firmly established. They lived on the lines laid down by their forefathers, and held that a simple faith in God, coupled with honest hard labour, was sufficient to make life well worth living. And, on the whole they were made of that robust human material of which in the days gone by there was enough to compose and consolidate the greatness of Britain. They were kindly of heart, but plain in speech,—and their remarks on current events, persons and things, would have astonished and perhaps edified many a press man had he been among them, when on Saturday nights they "dropped in" at the one little public-house of the village, and argued politics and religion till closing-time. Angus Reay soon became a favourite with them all, though at first they had looked upon him with a little distrust as a "gentleman tow-rist"; but when he had mixed with them freely and familiarly, making no secret of the fact that he was poor, and that he was endeavouring to earn a livelihood like all the rest of them, only in a different way, they abandoned all reserve, and treated him as one of themselves. Moreover, when it was understood that "Mis' Deane," whose reputation stood very high in the village, considered him not unworthy of her friendship, he rose up several degrees in the popular estimation, and many a time those who were the self-elected wits and wise-acres of the place, would "look in" as they termed it, at Mary's cottage, and pass the evening talking with him and with "old David," who, if he did not say much, listened the more. Mr. Bunce, the doctor, and Mr. Twitt, the stonemason, were in particular profoundly impressed when they knew that Reay had worked for two years on a London newspaper.

"Ye must 'ave a ter'uble knowledge of the world, Mister!" said Twitt, thoughtfully—"Just ter'uble!"

"Yes, I should assume it must be so,"—murmured Bunce—"I should think it could hardly fail to be so?"

Reay gave a short laugh.

"Well, I don't know!" he said—"You may call it a knowledge of the world if you like—I call it an unpleasant glimpse into the shady side of life. I'd rather walk in the sunshine."

"And what would you call the sunshine, sir?" asked Bunce, with his head very much on one side like a meditative bird.

Honesty, truth, belief in God, belief in good!"—answered Angus, with some passion—"Not perpetual scheming, suspicion of motives, personal slander, and pettiness—O Lord!—such pettiness as can hardly be believed! Journalism is the most educational force in the world, but its power is being put to wrong uses."

"Well,—said Twitt, slowly—"I aint so blind but I can see through a wall when there's a chink in it. An' when I gets my 'Daily' down from Lunnun, an' sees harf a page given up to a kind o' poster about Pills, an' another harf a page praisin' up somethin' about Tonics, I often sez to myself: 'Look 'ere, Twitt! What are ye payin' yer pennies out for? For a Patent Pill or for News? For a Nervy Tonic or for the latest pol'tics?' An' myself—me—Twitt—answers an' sez—'Why ye're payin' for news an' pol'tics, of course!' Well then, I sez, 'Twitt, ye aint gettin' nothin' o' the sort!' An' t' other day, blow'd if I didn't see in my paper a long piece about ''Ow to be Beautiful'—an' that 'adn't nothin' to do wi' me nor no man, but was just mere gabble for fool women. ''Ow to be Beautiful,' aint news o' the world!"

"No,"—said Reay—"You're not intended to know the news of the world. News, real news, is the property of the Stock Exchange. It's chiefly intended for company gambling purposes. The People are not expected to know much about it. Modern Journalism seeks to play Pope and assert the doctrine of infallibility. What It does not authorise, isn't supposed to exist."

"Is that truly so?" asked Bunce, solemnly.

"Most assuredly!"

"You mean to say,"—said Helmsley, breaking in upon the conversation, and speaking in quiet unconcerned tones—"that the actual national affairs of the world are not told to the people as they should be, but are jealously guarded by a few whose private interests are at stake?"

"Yes. I certainly do mean that."

"I thought you did. You see," went on Helmsley—"when I was in regular office work in London, I used to hear a good deal concerning the business schemes of this, that and the other great house in the city,—and I often wondered what the people would say if they ever came to know!"

"Came to know what?" said Mr. Bunce, anxiously.

"Why, the names of the principal shareholders in the newspapers,"—said Reay, placidly—"That might possibly open their eyes to the way their opinions are manufactured for them! There's very little 'liberty of the press' in Great Britain nowadays. The press is the property of a few rich men."

Mary, who was working very intently on a broad length of old lace she was mending, looked up at him—her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks softly flushed.

"I hope you will be brave enough to say that some day right out to the people as you say it to us,"—she observed.

"I will! Never fear about that! If I am ever anything—if I ever can be anything—I will do my level best to save my nation from being swallowed up by a horde of German-American Jews!" said Reay, hotly—"I would rather suffer anything myself than see the dear old country brought to shame."

"Right, very right!" said Mr. Bunce, approvingly—"And many—yes, I think we may certainly say many,—are of your spirit,—what do you think, David?"

Helmsley had raised himself in his chair, and was looking wonderfully alert. The conversation interested him.

"I quite agree,"—he said—"But Mr. Reay must remember that if he should ever want to make a clean sweep of German-American Jews and speculators as he says, and expose the way they tamper with British interests, he would require a great deal of money. A very great deal of money!" he repeated, slowly,—"Now I wonder, Mr. Reay, what you would do with a million?—two millions?—three millions?—four millions?"—

"Stop, stop, old David!"—interrupted Twitt, suddenly holding up his hand—"Ye takes my breath away!"

They all laughed, Reay's hearty tones ringing above the rest.

"Oh, I should know what to do with them!"—he said; "but I wouldn't spend them on my own selfish pleasures—that I swear! For one thing, I'd run a daily newspaper on honest lines——"

"It wouldn't sell!" observed Helmsley, drily.

"It would—it should!" declared Reay—"And I'd tell the people the truth of things,—I'd expose every financial fraud I could find——"

"And you'd live in the law-courts, I fear!" said Mr. Bunce, gravely shaking his head—"We may be perfectly certain, I think—may we not, David?—that the law-courts would be Mr. Reay's permanent address?"

They laughed again, and the conversation turned to other topics, though its tenor was not forgotten by anyone, least of all by Helmsley, who sat very silent for a long time afterwards, thinking deeply, and seeing in his thoughts various channels of usefulness to the world and the world's progress, which he had missed, but which others after him would find.

Meanwhile Weircombe suffered a kind of moral convulsion in the advent of the Reverend Mr. Arbroath, who arrived to "take duty" in the absence of its legitimate pastor. He descended upon the tiny place like an embodied black whirlwind, bringing his wife with him, a lady whose facial lineaments bore the strangest and most remarkable resemblance to those of a china cat; not a natural cat, because there is something soft and appealing about a real "pussy,"—whereas Mrs. Arbroath's countenance was cold and hard and shiny, like porcelain, and her smile was precisely that of the immovable and ruthless-looking animal designed long ago by old-time potters and named "Cheshire." Her eyes were similar to the eyes of that malevolent china creature—and when she spoke, her voice had the shrill tone which was but a few notes off the actual "me-iau" of an angry "Tom." Within a few days after their arrival, every cottage in the "coombe" had been "visited," and both Mr. and Mrs. Arbroath had made up their minds as to the neglected, wholly unspiritual and unregenerate nature of the little flock whom they had offered, for sake of their own health and advantage, to tend. The villagers had received them civilly, but without enthusiasm. When tackled on the subject of their religious opinions, most of them declined to answer, except Mr. Twitt, who, fixing a filmy eye sternly on the plain and gloomy face of Mr. Arbroath, said emphatically:

"We aint no 'Igh Jinks!"

"What do you mean, my man?" demanded Arbroath, with a dark smile.

"I mean what I sez"—rejoined Twitt—"I've been stonemason 'ere goin' on now for thirty odd years an' it's allus been the same 'ere—no 'Igh Jinks. Purcessin an' vestiments"—here Twitt spread out a broad dirty thumb and dumped it down with each word into the palm of his other hand—"candles, crosses, bobbins an' bowins—them's what we calls 'Igh Jinks, an' I make so bold as to say that if ye gets 'em up 'ere, Mr. Arbroath, ye'll be mighty sorry for yourself!"

"I shall conduct the services as I please!" said Arbroath. "You take too much upon yourself to speak to me in such a fashion! You should mind your own business!"

"So should you, Mister, so should you!" And Twitt chuckled contentedly—"An' if ye don't mind it, there's those 'ere as'll make ye!"

Arbroath departed in a huff, and the very next Sunday announced that "Matins" would be held at seven o'clock daily in the Church, and "Evensong" at six in the afternoon. Needless to say, the announcement was made in vain. Day after day passed, and no one attended. Smarting with rage, Arbroath sought to "work up" the village to a proper "'Igh Jink" pitch—but his efforts were wasted. And a visit to Mary Deane's cottage did not sweeten his temper, for the moment he caught sight of Helmsley sitting in his usual corner by the fire, he recognised him as the "old tramp" he had interviewed in the common room of the "Trusty Man."

"How did you come here?" he demanded, abruptly.

Helmsley, who happened to be at work basket-making, looked up, but made no reply. Whereupon Arbroath turned upon Mary—

"Is this man a relative of yours?" he asked.

Mary had risen from her chair out of ordinary civility as the clergyman entered, and now replied quietly.

"No, sir."

"Oh! Then what is he doing here?"

"You can see what he is doing,"—she answered, with a slight smile—"He is making baskets."

"He is a tramp!" said Arbroath, pointing an inflexible finger at him—"I saw him last summer smoking and drinking with a gang of low ruffians at a roadside inn called 'The Trusty Man'!" And he advanced a step towards Helmsley—"Didn't I see you there?"

Helmsley looked straight at him.

"You did."

"You told me you were tramping to Cornwall."

"So I was."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Earning a living."

Arbroath turned sharply on Mary.

"Is that true?"

"Of course it is true,"—she replied—"Why should he tell you a lie?"

"Does he lodge with you?"

"Yes."

Arbroath paused a moment, his little brown eyes sparkling vindictively.

"Well, you had better be careful he does not rob you!" he said. "For I can prove that he seemed to be very good friends with that notorious rascal Tom o' the Gleam who murdered a nobleman at Blue Anchor last summer, and who would have hung for his crime if he had not fortunately saved the expense of a rope by dying."

Helmsley, bending over his basket-weaving, suddenly straightened himself and looked the clergyman full in the face.

"I never knew Tom o' the Gleam till that night on which you saw me at 'The Trusty Man,'" he said—"But I know he had terrible provocation for the murder he committed. I saw that murder done!"

"You saw it done!" exclaimed Arbroath—"And you are here?"

"Why should I not be here?" demanded Helmsley—"Would you have expected me to stay there? I was only one of many witnesses to that terrible deed of vengeance—but, as God lives, it was a just vengeance!"

"Just? You call murder just!" and Arbroath gave a gesture of scorn and horror—"And you,"—he continued, turning to Mary indignantly—"can allow a ruffian like this to live in your house?"

"He is no ruffian,"—said Mary steadily,—"Nor was Tom o' the Gleam a ruffian either. He was well-known in these parts for many and many a deed of kindness. The real ruffian was the man who killed his little child. Indeed I think he was the chief murderer."

"Oh, you do, do you?" and Mr. Arbroath frowned heavily—"And you call yourself a respectable woman?"

Mary smiled, and resuming her seat, bent her head intently over her lace work.

Arbroath stood irresolute, gazing at her. He was a sensual man, and her physical beauty annoyed him. He would have liked to sit down alone with her and take her hand in his own and talk to her about her "soul" while gloating over her body. But in the "old tramp's" presence there was nothing to be done. So he assumed a high moral tone.

"Accidents will happen,"—he said, sententiously—"If a child gets into the way of a motor going at full speed, it is bound to be unfortunate—for the child. But Lord Wrotham was a rich man—and no doubt he would have paid a handsome sum down in compensation——"

"Compensation!" And Helmsley suddenly stood up, drawing his frail thin figure erect—"Compensation! Money! Money for a child's life—money for a child's love! Are you a minister of Christ, that you can talk of such a thing as possible? What is all the wealth of the world compared to the life of one beloved human creature! Reverend sir, I am an old poor man,—a tramp as you say, consorting with rogues and ruffians—but were I as rich as the richest millionaire that ever 'sweated' honest labour, I would rather shoot myself than offer money compensation to a father for the loss of a child whom my selfish pleasure had slain!"

He trembled from head to foot with the force of his own eloquence, and Arbroath stared at him dumb-foundered.

"You are a preacher,"—went on Helmsley—"You are a teacher of the Gospel. Do you find anything in the New Testament that gives men licence to ride rough-shod over the hearts and emotions of their fellow-men? Do you find there that selfishness is praised or callousness condoned? In those sacred pages are we told that a sparrow's life is valueless, or a child's prayer despised? Sir, if you are a Christian, teach Christianity as Christ taught it—honestly!"

Arbroath turned livid.

"How dare you—!" he began—when Mary quietly rose.

"I would advise you to be going, sir,"—she said, quite courteously—"The old man is not very strong, and he has a trouble of the heart. It is little use for persons to argue who feel so differently. We poor folk do not understand the ways of the gentry."

And she held open the door of her cottage for him to pass out. He pressed his slouch-hat more heavily over his eyes, and glared at her from under the shadow of its brim.

"You are harbouring a dangerous customer in your house!" he said—"A dangerous customer! It will be my duty to warn the parish against him!"

She smiled.

"You are very welcome to do so, sir! Good-morning!"

And as he tramped away through her tiny garden, she quickly shut and barred the door after him, and hurried to Helmsley in some anxiety, for he looked very pale, and his breath came and went somewhat rapidly.

"David dear, why did you excite yourself so much over that man!" she said, kneeling beside him as he sank back exhausted in his chair—"Was it worth while?"

He patted her head with a tremulous hand.

"Perhaps not!" And he smiled—"Perhaps not, Mary! But the cold-blooded way in which he said that a money compensation might have been offered to poor Tom o' the Gleam for his little child's life—my God! As if any sort of money could compare with love!"

He stroked her hair gently, and went on murmuring to himself—

"As if all the gold in the world could make up for the loss of one loving heart!"

Mary was silent. She saw that he was greatly agitated, and thought it better to let him speak out his whole mind rather than suppress his feelings.

"What can a man do with wealth!" he went on, speaking more to himself than to her—"He can buy everything that is to be bought, certainly—but if he has no one to share his goods with him, what then? Eh, Mary? What then?"

"Why then he'd be a very miserable man, David!" she answered, smiling—"He'd wish he were poor, with some one to love him!"

He looked at her, and his sunken eyes flashed with quite an eager light.

"That's true!" he said—"He'd wish he were poor with some one to love him! Mary, you've been so kind to me—promise me one thing!"

"What's that?" and she patted his hand soothingly.

"Just this—if I die on your hands don't let that man Arbroath bury me! I think my very bones would split at the sound of his rasping voice!"

Mary laughed.

"Don't you worry about that!" she said—"Mr. Arbroath won't have the chance to bury you, David! Besides, he never takes the burials of the very poor folk even in his own parishes. He wrote a letter in one of the countryside papers not very long ago, to complain of the smallness of the burial fees, and said it wasn't worth his while to bury paupers!" And she laughed again. "Poor, bitter-hearted man! He must be very wretched in himself to be so cantankerous to others."

"Well, don't let him bury me!" said Helmsley—"That's all I ask. I'd much rather Twitt dug a hole in the seashore and put my body into it himself, without any prayers at all, than have a prayer croaked over me by that clerical raven! Remember that!"

"I'll remember!" And Mary's face beamed with kindly tolerance and good-humour—"But you're really quite an angry old boy to-day, David! I never saw you in such a temper!"

Her playful tone brought a smile to his face at last.

"It was that horrible suggestion of money compensation for a child's life that angered me,"—he said, half apologetically—"The notion that pounds, shillings and pence could pay for the loss of love, got on my nerves. Why, love is the only good thing in the world!"

She had been half kneeling by his chair—but she now rose slowly, and stretched her arms out with a little gesture of sudden weariness.

"Do you think so, David?" and she sighed, almost unconsciously to herself—"I'm not so sure!"

He glanced at her in sudden uneasiness. Was she too going to say, like Lucy Sorrel, that she did not believe in love? He thought of Angus Reay, and wondered. She caught his look and smiled.

"I'm not so sure!" she repeated—"There's a great deal talked about love,—but it often seems as if there was more talk than deed. At least there is in what is generally called 'love.' I know there's a very real and beautiful love, like that which I had for my father, and which he had for me,—that was as near being perfect as anything could be in this world. But the love I had for the young man to whom I was once engaged was quite a different thing altogether."

"Of course it was!" said Helmsley—"And quite naturally, too. You loved your father as a daughter loves—and I suppose you loved the young man as a sweetheart loves—eh?"

"Sweetheart is a very pretty word,"—she answered, the smile still lingering about her lips—"It's quite old-fashioned too, and I love old-fashioned things. But I don't think I loved the young man exactly as a 'sweetheart.' It all came about in a very haphazard way. He took a fancy to me, and we used to go long walks together. He hadn't very much to say for himself—he smoked most of the time. But he was honest and respectable—and I got rather fond of him—so that when he asked me to marry him, I thought it would perhaps please father to see me provided for—and I said yes, without thinking very much about it. Then, when father failed in business and my man threw me over, I fretted a bit just for a day or two—mostly I think because we couldn't go any more Sunday walks together. I was in the early twenties, but now I'm getting on in the thirties. I know I didn't understand a bit about real love then. It was just fancy and the habit of seeing the one young man oftener than others. And, of course, that isn't love."

Helmsley listened to her every word, keenly interested. Surely, if he guided the conversation skilfully enough, he might now gain some useful hints which would speed the cause of Angus Reay?

"No—of course that isn't love,"—he echoed—"But what do you take to be love?—Can you tell me?"

Her eyes filled with a dreamy light, and her lips quivered a little.

"Can I tell you? Not very well, perhaps—but I'll try. Of course it's all over for me now—and I can only just picture what I think it ought to be. I never had it. I mean I never had that kind of love I have dreamed about, and it seems silly for an old maid to even talk of such a thing. But love to my mind ought to be the everything of life! If I loved a man——" Here she suddenly paused, and a wave of colour flushed her cheeks. Helmsley never took his eyes off her face.

"Yes?" he said, tentatively—"Well!—go on—if you loved a man?——"

"If I loved a man, David,"—she continued, slowly, clasping her hands meditatively behind her back, and looking thoughtfully into the glowing centre of the fire—"I should love him so completely that I should never think of anything in which he had not the first and greatest share. I should see his kind looks in every ray of sunshine—I should hear his loving voice in every note of music,—if I were to read a book alone, I should wonder which sentence in it would please him the most—if I plucked a flower, I should ask myself if he would like me to wear it,—I should live through him and for him—he would be my very eyes and heart and soul! The hours would seem empty without him——"

She broke off with a little sob, and her eyes brimmed over with tears.

"Why Mary! Mary, my dear!" murmured Helmsley, stretching out his hand to touch her—"Don't cry!"

"I'm not crying, David!" and a rainbow smile lighted her face—"I'm only just—feeling! It's like when I read a little verse of poetry that is very sad and sweet, I get tears into my eyes—and when I talk about love—especially now that I shall never know what it is, something rises in my throat and chokes me——"

"But you do know what it is,"—said Helmsley, powerfully moved by the touching simplicity of her confession of loneliness—"There isn't a more loving heart than yours in the world, I'm sure!"

She came and knelt down again beside him.

"Oh yes, I've a loving heart!" she said—"But that's just the worst of it! I can love, but no one loves or ever will love me—now. I'm past the age for it. No woman over thirty can expect to be loved by a lover, you know! Romance is all over—and one 'settles down,' as they say. I've never quite 'settled'—there's always something restless in me. You're such a dear old man, David, and so kind!—I can speak to you just as if you were my father—and I daresay you will not think it very wrong or selfish of me if I say I have longed to be loved sometimes! More than that, I've wished it had pleased God to send me a husband and children—I should have dearly liked to hold a baby in my arms, and soothe its little cries, and make it grow up to be happy and good, and a blessing to every one. Some women don't care for children—but I should have loved mine!"

She paused a moment, and Helmsley took her hand, and silently pressed it in his own.

"However,"—she went on, more lightly—"it's no good grieving over what cannot be helped. No man has ever really loved me—because, of course, the one I was engaged to wouldn't have thrown me over just because I was poor if he had cared very much about me. And I shall be thirty-five this year—so I must—I really must"—and she gave herself an admonitory little shake—"settle down! After all there are worse things in life than being an old maid. I don't mind it—it's only sometimes when I feel inclined to grizzle, that I think to myself what a lot of love I've got in my heart—all wasted!"

"Wasted?" echoed Helmsley, gently—"Do you think love is ever wasted?"

Her eyes grew serious and dreamy.

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't"—she answered—"When I begin to like a person very much I often pull myself back and say 'Take care! Perhaps he doesn't like you!'"

"Oh! The person must be a 'he' then!" said Helmsley, smiling a little.

She coloured.

"Oh no—not exactly!—but I mean,—now, for instance,"—and she spoke rapidly as though to cover some deeper feeling—"I like you very much—indeed I'm fond of you, David!—I've got to know you so well, and to understand all your ways—but I can't be sure that you like me as much as I like you, can I?"

He looked at her kind and noble face with eyes full of tenderness and gratitude.

"If you can be sure of anything, you can be sure of that!"—he said—"To say I 'like' you would be a poor way of expressing myself. I owe my very life to you—and though I am only an old poor man, I would say I loved you if I dared!"

She smiled—and her whole face shone with the reflected sunshine of her soul.

"Say it, David dear! Do say it! I should like to hear it!"

He drew the hand he held to his lips, and gently kissed it.

"I love you, Mary!" he said—"As a father loves a daughter I love you, and bless you! You have been a good angel to me—and I only wish I were not so old and weak and dependent on your care. I can do nothing to show my affection for you—I'm only a burden upon your hands——"

She laid her fingers lightly across his lips.

"Sh-sh!" she said—"That's foolish talk, and I won't listen to it! I'm glad you're fond of me—it makes life so much pleasanter. Do you know, I sometimes think God must have sent you to me?"

"Do you? Why?"

"Well, I used to fret a little at being so much alone,—the days seemed so long, and it was hard to have to work only for one's wretched self, and see nothing in the future but just the same old round—and I missed my father always. I never could get accustomed to his empty chair. Then when I found you on the hills, lost and solitary, and ill, and brought you home to nurse and take care of, all the vacancy seemed filled—and I was quite glad to have some one to work for. I've been ever so much happier since you've been with me. We'll be like father and daughter to the end, won't we?"

She put one arm about him coaxingly. He did not answer.

"You won't go away from me now,—will you, David?" she urged—"Even when you've paid me back all you owe me as you wish by your own earnings, you won't go away?"

He lifted his head and looked at her as she bent over him.

"You mustn't ask me to promise anything,"—he said, "I will stay with you—as long as I can!"

She withdrew her arm from about him, and stood for a moment irresolute.

"Well—I shall be very miserable if you do go,"—she said—"And I'm sure no one will take more care of you than I will!"

"I'm sure of that, too, Mary!" and a smile that was almost youthful in its tenderness brightened his worn features—"I've never been so well taken care of in all my life before! Mr. Reay thinks I am a very lucky old fellow."

"Mr. Reay!" She echoed the name—and then, stooping abruptly towards the fire, began to make it up afresh. Helmsley watched her intently.

"Don't you like Mr. Reay?" he asked.

She turned a smiling face round upon him.

"Why, of course I like him!" she answered—"I think everyone in Weircombe likes him."

"I wonder if he'll ever marry?" pursued Helmsley, with a meditative air.

"Ah, I wonder! I hope if he does, he'll find some dear sweet little girl who will really love him and be proud of him! For he's going to be a great man, David!—a great and famous man some day!"

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it!"

And she lifted her head proudly, while her blue eyes shone with enthusiastic fervour. Helmsley made a mental note of her expression, and wondered how he could proceed.

"And you'd like him to marry some 'dear sweet little girl'"—he went on, reflectively—"I'll tell him that you said so!"

She was silent, carefully piling one or two small logs on the fire.

"Dear sweet little girls are generally uncommonly vain of themselves," resumed Helmsley—"And in the strength of their dearness and sweetness they sometimes fail to appreciate love when they get it. Now Mr. Reay would love very deeply, I should imagine—and I don't think he could bear to be played with or slighted."

"But who would play with or slight such love as his?" asked Mary, with a warm flush on her face—"No woman that knew anything of his heart would wilfully throw it away!"

Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"That story of his about a girl named Lucy Sorrel,"—he began.

"Oh, she was wicked—downright wicked!" declared Mary, with some passion—"Any girl who would plan and scheme to marry an old man for his money must be a worthless creature. I wish I had been in that Lucy Sorrel's place!"

"Ah! And what would you have done?" enquired Helmsley.

"Well, if I had been a pretty girl, in my teens, and I had been fortunate enough to win the heart of a splendid fellow like Angus Reay,"—said Mary, "I would have thanked God, as Shakespeare tells us to do, for a good man's love! And I would have waited for him years, if he had wished me to! I would have helped him all I could, and cheered him and encouraged him in every way I could think of—and when he had won his fame, I should have been prouder than a queen! Yes, I should!—I think any girl would have been lucky indeed to get such a man to care for her as Angus Reay!"

Thus spake Mary, with sparkling eyes and heaving bosom—and Helmsley heard her, showing no sign of any especial interest, the while he went on meditatively stroking his beard.

"It is a pity,"—he said, after a discreet pause—"that you are not a few years younger, Mary! You might have loved him yourself."

Her face grew suddenly scarlet, and she seemed about to utter an exclamation, but she repressed it. The colour faded from her cheeks as rapidly as it had flushed them, leaving her very pale.

"So I might!" she answered quietly,—and she smiled; "Indeed I think it would have been very likely! But that sort of thing is all over for me."

She turned away, and began busying herself with some of her household duties. Helmsley judged that he had said enough—and quietly exulted in his own mind at the discovery which he was confident he had made. All seemed clear and open sailing for Angus Reay—if—if she could be persuaded that it was for herself and herself alone that he loved her.

"Now if she were a rich woman, she would never believe in his love!" he thought—"There again comes in the curse of money! Suppose she were wealthy as women in her rank of life would consider it—suppose that she had a prosperous farm, and a reliable income of so much per annum, she would never flatter herself that a man loved her for her own good and beautiful self—especially a man in the situation of Reay, with only twenty pounds in the world to last him a year, and nothing beyond it save the dream of fame! She would think—and naturally too—that he sought to strengthen and improve his prospects by marrying a woman of some 'substance' as they call it. And even as it is the whole business requires careful handling. I myself must be on my guard. But I think I may give hope to Reay!—indeed I shall try and urge him to speak to her as soon as possible—before fortune comes to either of them! Love in its purest and most unselfish form, is such a rare blessing—such a glorious Angel of the kingdom of Heaven, that we should not hesitate to give it welcome, or delay in offering it reverence! It is all that makes life worth living—God knows how fully I have proved it!"

And that night in the quiet darkness of his own little room, he folded his worn hands and prayed—

"Oh God, before whom I appear as a wasted life, spent with toil in getting what is not worth the gaining, and that only seems as dross in Thy sight!—Give me sufficient time and strength to show my gratefulness to Thee for Thy mercy in permitting me to know the sweetness of Love at last, and in teaching me to understand, through Thy guidance, that those who may seem to us the unconsidered and lowly in this world, are often to be counted among Thy dearest creatures! Grant me but this, O God, and death when it comes, shall find me ready and resigned to Thy Will!"

Thus he murmured half aloud,—and in the wonderful restfulness which he obtained by the mere utterance of his thoughts to the Divine Source of all good, closed his eyes with a sense of abiding joy, and slept peacefully.

Footnote 1: A fact.