She sat looking out of one of these windows now, and though it was rich summer there was something of bareness, like a touch of eternal winter, on the mountain side at her left; and the river looked cold, though under the bluest of skies.

The thick stone walls, too, of her little "palace" made her room but slightly warmed by the afternoon sunshine. All her efforts in the way of artistic decoration, of pictures, or blooming flowers, seemed to do little more, she thought, than give it the appearance of a well-kept tomb.

When she put on her usual black dress, she said to herself, as she looked in her glass

"He will almost become convinced that I am in a manner dead and buried here, and go to his wedding with a lighter heart."

When the time came that Cicely heard wheels on the stony road below, she was hardly able to move; and the red and the pale golden lights behind the two ragged-looking pines seemed all to mix and float before her eyes. She knew well what the wheels meant. The sound of them was rare on this little upper road, belonging only to her own small territory. She had had a few visitors come to her by the cars from Arran Bach-friends who had believed in her against all evidence, and through all her misfortunes. Therefore she knew well the sound of those wheels she now heard.

She leant back in her chair, praying for strength, as only those pray who feel they have, by their own will, brought upon themselves some trial which assumes greater and more formidable proportions as it comes nearer and nearer.

But in a few moments Cicely had so reasoned with herself, that she was neither ashamed nor afraid of what she had done. The thought of her father, and of this being her last chance of obeying his command-" Give these yourself into Clarence Rudall's hands" gave her power over her own heart,

that made her at least appear almost calm.

The car pulled up at the yard gate. The traveller strode across the freshlywashed stones, frightening away the chickens which were picking up their evening meal there, thrown to them by the stout bare-armed girl, who flung down her sieve of corn and screamed at the sight of the stranger.

Instead of the venerable harpist, or the young page with the renowned "Hurlas," whom, no doubt, Dowdeswell's romance-seeker would have made to meet the guest in the hall, the new comer saw in the stone passage an old woman knitting her stocking.

"How do you do, Rachel? Will you tell your mistress I am come?"

She had known him ever since his marriage, and now gave a stiff curtsey and went up stairs.

To her surprise, and also to Cicely's, he followed her closely. The next moment he was in the room, and had shut the door after him, leaving Rachel outside, not having even waited for her to announce him.

At this moment, Dowdeswell's friend might surely have found good material for his history of Plas Llewellyn could he but have represented this fair woman standing to welcome her visitor, as some noble Griseld of ancient Cambria waiting to have demanded of her her little castle for the wedding gift of this her former lord to his new bride. The ancient square window, the cold blue-black hilltops against the summer sky, the streaks of light behind the ragged pines, might have given a fitting background to the picture of the gentle woman standing with no sign of what she suffered, but the holding tightly against her side one little hand, as if some barrier were necessary between her heart and the approaching guest.

There might, too, have been something of the roughness of the former lords of Plas Llewellyn in the suddenness with which this little guard was seized and held prisoner.

It availed Cicely little to exclaim with all her remaining strength—

"Sir! must I remind you of the object of your visit-that you come to me on behalf of your affianced bride?"

"No bride," said Rudall, his eyes blinded, and his voice faint and broken; "no bride, Cicely, but to really find what Milton only dreamt

'My late espousèd saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave.'"

CHAPTER XV.

HAUNTING WHISPERS.

It was about the beginning of November in the same year of Sebastian's return that there came for Amos Gould a time of fear and sorrow darker than he had ever known, or had ever dreaded as being in store for him.

It had a vague but terrifying beginning, and for many days and nights he strove to rid himself of it, half believing it to be some waking

dream that haunted him.

It entered his heart with a few only partially heard words, little

meant to reach him.

He had been on a long round of calls, none of them very pleasant or apparently profitable, and was returning, weary and cheerless, when he bethought him of a duty still left undone. He had not called on Dowdeswell since his and Dora's friendly visit. A brace of pheasants and a hare had been left by the Combe gamekeeper at the Rectory since then, and had helped out Mrs. Gould's modest housekeeping. Amos felt that, tired as he was, he ought not to pass without calling. He noticed as he entered the little gate that there was a cab in waiting.

The garden was in its winter garb of velvety green of all shades, from the light tips of the firs to the dark cedar. The pigeons had retired, and showed scarcely a speck of white at their little black doorways.

Amos was shown into one of the ground-floor rooms, four of which were made so as to be opened on occasion into one.

The first moment or two he was in the waiting-room certain words came to Amos' ears; he scarcely knew from whence, but it must have been from the partly-open doors behind where he was sitting.

Very few minutes could have passed between the utterance of those words and the closing of the house door that he heard; yet Amos felt ten years older in that time.

Dowdeswell came in to him, and Amos saw him glance in a startled and an uneasy manner at the partially open doors behind him.

Those strange words, then, he thought, had been no fancy. Something had been said that Dowdeswell was sorry he heard, or was hoping he had not heard.

on common

Amos was well trained to selfcontrol, and he spoke so nearly in his ordinary manner place topics that Dowdeswell lost all his uneasiness, and evidently flattered himself, Amos could perceive, that nothing had been heard to give him

alarm.

Dowdeswell was cordial, perhaps more so than usual. Amos took alarm even from that. It seemed so natural for him to be so if the words he had heard were true, otherwise why should he show him unwonted kindness?

There was only one subject on which it was natural for Dowdeswell to speak; but this he utterly avoided. Amos waited at times, almost holding his breath in suspense, whether he would leave Sebastian's name altogether unmentioned. But he did so leave it.

In the course of conversation, Amos inquired about the yacht. Dowdeswell instantly became confused, and halfaverted his face as he answered quickly—

"Oh, the damage was not so great after all. A person has just been here -the captain of the ship that caused

Amos had thought the subject of the yacht the last thing to have any connexion with his new fear. How much more real that fear became by this confusion of Dowdeswell's, and the slight mention of the person who had given rise to it!

The words he half hoped might have been uttered in his own imagination only, now acquired fresh distinctness when he heard this mention of the person who had been with Dowdeswell in the next room, and who must have spoken them. A sea captain. Yes a person likely to have known Sebastian in New Zealand, or on his voyage home.

Still Amos continued to talk calmly, and in his usual slow, subdued manner, about commonplace things, so that Dowdeswell, if he suspected him of having overheard anything likely to give him great concern, must have had his suspicion removed before his brief visit terminated.

As Amos walked up the village street, he tried, for the first time in his life, to avoid encountering the direct look of any person he met.

He had heard of thoughts, startling and strange as his own were now, showing themselves in the face; and he looked down on the ground as he walked, stooping as he had never done before.

He was thankful that the dusk had fallen by the time he reached home, and that it was still too early to light candles.

At tea-time the girls began to talk about Stillinghurst, and the pleasure of occasional long visits to Sebastian when he should be domiciled in the old manor house, which was now the vicarage.

Amos was appealed to several times, and his opinion asked concerning Sebastian's future arrangements. He found it very difficult to answer such questions, feeling, as he did, a dreaded

certainty that Sebastian wonld never go to Stillinghurst.

"By the by," said Mrs. Gould, "have you called at the Combe yet?" "I have," answered Amos, "this afternoon."

His daughters and Mrs. Gould inquired simultaneously if he had heard any fresh news as to the Stillinghurst living, and whether he had seen Dora.

"I only saw Dowdeswell a few minutes," replied Amos, "and he did not mention Stillinghurst, or his daughter."

Amos spoke in a manner that made them think he was tired and disinclined to talk. Mrs. Gould knew, without looking at him, that there was something more than this.

Three days passed, and Amos continued in the same mood, without Mrs. Gould being able to guess in any degree the cause of it.

Amos went through his work as he usually did go through it, in a halfmechanical way; but seemed always on the strain to keep some deep and sleepless anxiety from showing itself in his eyes, or revealing itself in his voice.

One morning Mrs. Gould found among her letters, one addressed by the prebendary to Amos.

"From dear Bishop Jellicoe!" she exclaimed.

"Is it not for me?" Amos inquired in some haste. "I think it is for me."

"So it is!" replied Mrs. Gould, with a little wonder, for the prebendary's communications were almost invariably addressed to herself.

When Amos received the letter from her he put it in his pocket.

"We are late this morning," he said, rising, "and I must be up in the village in a few minutes."

He went out, made his call at the schools, and returned as if going home, but on reaching the Rectory he walked on instead of entering it.

When Amos had walked down to the end of the lane, and could be sure of no one but the sea-gulls overlooking him, he opened the prebendary's letter.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,-I am compelled to request your son to absent himself from my parish, for some time, I have said, but he must know as well as I that his return here is impossible. No doubt you and he will arrange matters so as to spare me further alarm and trouble. I trust he will confide in you at once, and and fully, and that for my sake the greatest secrecy be kept on this sad and shocking business. In case of his not at once confiding in you I will simply say-look to his ordination papers for explanation of this letter, which, for God's sake, destroy immediately, for my being suspected of the faintest knowledge of this cruel fraud perpetrated on my parishioners, for whom he has performed all the most solemn rites of the Church, would

go

If

far towards bringing me to my grave. I suppose he will be with you to-night. May God help you and his mother. Again I implore you to keep him and yourself from all rash exposure. there is not the most perfect concealment, and he is not prevailed upon to leave the country quietly, I doubt whether my reason would remain to me, even if I could face the world at all. Remember, he must, if possible, be got out of the way before the bishop's visitation. You will understand the great importance of this when I tell you the registrar is instructed to examine all letters of orders.

"Let there be no delay through want of means. These shall be forthcoming the moment I hear from you as to what step you decide to take.

"Pardon the confused manner in which I write. I do so in much physical as well as mental distress. "Yours truly,

"S. JELLICOE."

"P.S.-The party from whom I have had warning of the terrible truth is pledged to secrecy, and has besides strong reasons for keeping silent. Some decision in forcing him to leave the courage, then, my dear Gould, and country, and his name and shocking Not story will pass into oblivion. a word has passed between him and myself as to the true reason of my requesting him to take a holiday for an indefinite period. I would not wish even him to dream I know all. Once more, may God bless and help you, and extend His merciful forgiveness even to him in His own time."

The letter contained this pencilled inclosure:

"I have been a witness to the un

seemly manner in which he has set himself to break off Miss D.'s engagement from the moment he entered my house, and can only conclude it was his infatuation for her, and a wild resolve to get to England and stop the marriage by any means, that tempted him to make such base use of his cousin's papers.-S. J."

In after years Amos Gould was unable to comprehend all that those next few hours were to him, as he sat watching the black wintry billows breaking at his feet with a kind of cold, low murmur, in which he heard nothing but the story of his misery and shame.

Amos put the letter in his pocket again. He felt afraid to destroy it just yet, lest he should be unable to tell whether he had been dreaming of its contents or not.

At certain moments during this week he had felt almost convinced he must have dreamt the words that haunted

him ever since his visit to Dowdeswell "Mock parson." ." "Sebastian Gould." "Using his cousin's letters of orders." Yes, Amos often thought he must have dreamt them, but now there was a reality about them in the light of this letter only too fearfully vivid.

Amos was sitting on the same shingly ledge where many a time a certain little dunce had been banished to learn his lesson. Bowing down his head on his hands Amos hardly felt alone on the beach now. The comical infantine little figure with its manly garb, closely cropped flaxen head, and angelic face, seemed surely somewhere near, poring hopelessly over the wellworn little book.

Sometimes the impression was so strong Amos lifted his white face and looked sharply along the beach on either side of him. Then he would bow down his head again with a halfstifled groan and the passionate useless prayer- "Oh! that it might have been so. Oh! that he could dash the fatal little book into the sea, and gather the child into his arms to save him yet."

Amos was, in his own eyes, the guilty person-Sebastian the martyr. How terrible, he felt, must have been the sense of mental tyranny over him to drive him to such a pass!

How should he see him?

He felt that he must tremble before his own son. As for the poor mother, Amos doubted whether he could ever tell her to what runious work she had lent the whole strength of her nature. Even the prebendary was evidently shocked and appalled at his own share in it at least so Amos judged. And yet, might not they all have looked for some such result of the unnatural driving and goading?

Amos felt he must not be alone too long in such remorse and anguish or how would he be able to receive Sebastian and be of help to him, and fit to guide him-if it must be soout on his bitter exile?

He rose and went homewards, but everywhere the little child was with

him in fancy. Even the little churchyard Amos could not pass without remembering some of Sebastian's strange, quaint thoughts-those queer fancies that Amos used to grimly discourage, bidding the boy think more of his books and less of his own foolish notions.

One of the graves there, just newly decorated with exotics, brought back to the mind of Amos the day on which Sebastian's garden (a narrow strip of six or seven feet long) had been taken from him at Mrs. Gould's request, as she considered he was man enough to content himself with trying to help his father. On that day, as the child walked with Amos past the churchyard, he had looked long over the low wall and then up at Amos, and smiled in so curious a manner that Amos said, "Well, what is it that amuses you ?"

66

"I was thinking," answered Sebastian, we get our little gardens back when we die. Don't we, papa?"

When Amos reached home he sat down, feeling and looking more weary than if he had just returned from one of his longest rounds. He knew the time that Sebastian would probably arrive, and as the hour came on he went out into the garden and paced the little walk from the house to the gate, and listened through the sound of the sea for the footstep on the lawn.

Would Sebastian tell him at once? Amos wondered. He trusted with all his heart he would do so, and not try to bear his burden in silence any longer.

Not as the prodigal's father poor little Amos waited while Sebastian was far off-not to restore him to his sonship, but to claim half his burden as his own.

There had been rain lately, and the sand in the lane was soft; so it was that without having heard his step Amos at last saw his son entering at the little gate between the myrtle and the red tree fuchsia. It was too dark