and gliding about. By-and-by they left me
for the night, thinking I slept soundly. But I
could not sleep, and I would not have slept if
I could. When the clock struck five I wrapped
myself in a cloak, and went out to roam about
the avenue, just for a change. I was half
afraid of the ghostly trees, so black against the
snow, but I was more in terror of the melancholy
corners of my own room, the solitary light,
the dreary ashes in the grate. I walked down
to the gate, and even ventured out on the road,
hoping to see some wayfarer coming past who
might be able to tell me something of the
accident. The road lay white and inviting before
me. I tried to consider how far it might be to
the nearest wayside cottage, where I might
possibly learn some news that might break the
awful suspense. But my head was confused,
and I suppose I did not calculate the distance
rightly, for after I had walked a mile I could
see no dwelling on before me. The morning
was breaking now, and the world looked pallid
and dreary. Suddenly my strength failed, I
felt faint and dizzy, and sat down upon a heap
of stones, drawing my cloak over my face. I
remember how my thoughts became broken and
confused, and my senses numb. I roused
myself once or twice, and said that I would move
on in a few moments, but I must rest for a
little while longer. And so I remained, lost in
a sort of stupid dream of trouble, I do not
know how long, when the sudden touch of a
hand on my shoulder made me start, and a
voice said, "What is the matter with you, my
poor woman?"

It was a man's voice—a familiar voice; my
children, it was the voice of John Hollingford.
With a wild cry I flung back the cloak from
my face. "John!—John!" I cried, and
grasped him by both hands. There he stood
unhurt. "Oh, thank God!" I cried again, and
burst into a fit of weeping, though not a tear
had I shed all the while I had pictured him
lying dead or dying. "I thought I never should
have seen your face again except in the coffin!"
I sobbed in my foolish joy, hardly knowing what
I said.

"Margery!" he said, "am I in my senses?
Is this all for me?"

"I cannot help it," I said. "I ought, but I
cannot. Oh, how I have suffered. No one
knows but me. I heard it last night, and I
kept it till now, and it has nearly killed me."

"You are killing yourself sitting here in the
cold," said John. "You are nearly frozen to
death." He wrapped my cloak round me, and
drew my arm through his.

"Who told you of the accident?" he said.

"Mrs. Beatty, last night," I answered.

"She might have kept her own counsel till
to-day. Several poor fellows have been killed,
but many escaped like myself, unhurt. And so
you kept it from my mother, and you grieved
for me. Margery, may I ask again that question
I asked you the night before I went away?
If it pains you, say nothing."

"You may, John," said I.

"And what will you answer?" said he.

"Anything you like," said I, with a want
of dignity, which it shocked me to think about
afterwards.

"And you do not want to go to London?"
he asked.

"Not unless you turn me out of doors," I
said.

"My own, true, brave darling!" he said.
And so we became engaged there upon the
snow.

How wonderfully the sun rose that morning.
How we walked home through Paradise,
forgetting that there was such a thing as suffering
in the world. How the girls hugged me when
they knew all. How Mrs. Hollingford smiled
upon us. And how sweet the honey and rice-
cakes tasted at breakfast. I could not attempt
to describe it to you, my dears. It was
arranged that, all things considered, we had better
not be married for a year.

It is strange how some little simple scenes
will remain printed on the memory, when others
more important have faded away. I remember
our gathering round the fire that evening, the
curtains unclosed, the mild moonshine behind
the window, the room half black shade and half
red light, the dear faces beaming round. That
evening I wrote my letter to Grace Tyrrell to
say that I should not go to London. That
evening, also, there came a letter from Mr. Hill
to John, saying that he hoped to arrive at the
hall on the morrow or next day. At tea
we talked about Rachel Leonard. Thinking
of her, the scene at the party came vividly
back—the occasion on which I had defended
Mr. Hollingford so hotly; and also my
conversation with Grace Tyrrell on the subject in
the carriage coming home. After musing a
little while, I said:

"John, are you quite sure that you never
met Miss Leonard when you were abroad?"

"Quite," said John, looking at me curiously.
"Why do you ask me that question so often,
Margery?"

"Have I asked it often?" I said, "I don't
remember, but I fancied from her manner that
she knew something about you."

"It is not likely," said John, "for I know
nothing about her." And so this matter
dropped.

CHAPTER VI

John made me promise to go out to meet
him next morning on his return from his early
walk across the farm. I remember so well how
gladly I sprang from my bed that morning, how
tedious my dressing seemed, and yet how I
lingered over it at the last, anxious to make
myself more pleasing in the eyes which I knew
would be watching for me from the hill. I
remember how in the tenderness of my joy, I
opened my sash to feed the robins, and how gay
and fair the world looked in its robe of white.
I remember how I ran after a little beggar boy
to give him sixpence, and how afterwards I
went along the path through the fields singing
aloud for mere happiness. And yet a little cloud