she loved to recall to herself in after years-an expression that perhaps more nearly approached reverence than any other human emotion.

The lesson was soon over; and then the Sergeant announced to the lads a holiday for the morrow, in honour of the wedding at the Grange; and he himself led the cheers that followed, and that made the rafters ring again.

Then the school broke up, and the boys departed noisily through a back door, into the playground behind; and Mr. Burr (the legitimate schoolmaster) went off to his dinner, and the Sergeant was left alone in the schoolroom.

Not quite alone. A small figure in one corner lagged behind his companions. It was a humpbacked lad, who could not put together his books and his slates so quickly as his companions, and yet was burning with impatience to join the noisy crew out yonder. So the Sergeant came to the little fellow's aid, and reached him his cap and crutches, and sent him stumping off after his comrades with a bright face.

The man stood and watched the lame lad from the school window, as he joined his companions outside. It needed not the radiance of the summer sun upon that good brown face to gladden it; it was illumined by a light that shone from within.

But Gilbert could restrain himself no longer. He advanced with a working face, and in a low tone uttered that one word for which the Sergeant's ears had so often longed -'Father!'

And the man turned and beheld there in the sunlight, his son standing with outstretched hand, and a face glowing with a noble repentance and a still nobler pride.

Gabrielle saw the sudden light that beamed out over both faces as their hands met in a warm grasp, and then she turned away and left them alone together.

CHAPTER LXVI.

HYMENEAL.

It was a gay wedding that took place on the morrow at Humbermouth Grange. There was not a guest present who did not feel that the festivity of the occasion was heightened by the reconciliation that had taken place on the previous day, nor one whose happiness was not increased by the presence of Gilbert and his father at the marriage feast.

Of course the Sherlock family were all present. The lieutenant had arrived at the Grange overnight, with his sister and daughter, the latter of whom was Gabrielle's only bridesmaid.

If Gabrielle had known anything of that scene that had taken place in the twilight at Tudor Lodge, now nearly two years back, and the true reasons why Gilbert had discontinued his lessons there, she would not have been surprised that Mary had found it utterly impossible' to get down to the Grange until the eve of the wedding. But neither to Gabrielle nor to other living soul had Mary ever breathed whisper of that last interview. No sooner had those words been spoken by Gilbert that night than she regarded them as for ever recalled. It had been a mistake (a cruel one as far as she was concerned) on his part, but it was a mistake that must never be betrayed.

They had never seen each other' again since; but when they met last night in the Grange parlour, they had both of them been able to speak with steady, well-controlled voices. The circumstances of that meeting were favourable to them. It was twilight when the Sherlocks arrived, and upon Mary entering the parlour she had immediately to be introduced to Mr. Holdfast, and to renew her old acquaintance with the Sergeant, whom she had never

forgotten since their one sole meeting on the stage-coach.

We scarcely want an introduction,' said Mary, coming forward with a ready smile; I believe you are the good friend to whom I was indebted for that excellent waterproof cape which kept me so dry and warm that dreadful day. Do you recollect it all, and the irritable old lady who kept sending up messages to the passengers outside because they stamped their feet upon the roof to keep them warm, and so prevented her sleeping?'

The reference to the waterproof cape brought up reference to Mary's inexhaustible basket and the bottle of sherry; so that in five minutes the Sergeant and she were laughing, and quite at home with each other. This was just as it should have been, and threw a lively air over the meeting at once.

The morrow's sun rose in a cloudless sky. It shone upon a happy wedding-party in Welstone Church at noon-a quaint, unconventional wedding-party withal. There were no rich costumes, nor groups of fashionably-attired friends blocking up the aisle-no train of bridesmaids nor gardens of bouquets; but there was a sweet, modest young bride, a manly, happy-looking bridegroom, a one-armed veteran, who led the bride to the altar, and stood reverently by her side throughout the ceremony, and a few friends behind (amongst whom John Holdfast's grey head towered), with a choir of village children to sing the wedding anthem.

The wedding breakfast was equally informal and unfettered by conventionalities; in proof of which it may be stated that when the bride's health had been drunk, Lieutenant Sherlock read aloud to his friends a certain letter which he had received the day before from Australia, containing hopeful tidings from the emigrants out there. A still more informal proceeding was

the adjournment of the whole party, shortly after, to the Grange kitchen, where the six coastguard-men (before mentioned in this history), together with Mr. Holdfast's servants, were seated at a banquet in honour of the occasion. Of course the bride's health was drunk again, and once more Mr. Griffiths distinguished himself by a speech as hopelessly involved and discursive as his former one, having at last to be dragged down forcibly into his chair; for his oration had degenerated into nothing better than an argument with another old 'salt' as to the precise time of the next change in the moon, which had somehow got itself involved with the bride's health.

At the moment of parting from her friends, a letter was put into Gabrielle's hand by Mr. Holdfast, as she stepped into the carriage. It lay there unheeded for some minutes, until Martin reminded her she was twisting it all to pieces; whereon it was opened, and disclosed to their astonished gaze a Bank of England note for one thousand pounds! which John Holdfast begged the bride to accept for her dower, from her old and obliged friend.

So Martin's magnanimity, which Gabrielle had loved to talk about, was all moonshine; for he had got not only a very charming little wife, but also a very pretty accession of fortune with her.

When the newly-wedded couple had taken their departure, the host ordered out the chaises and the greys, and took his guests to the marshes, to inspect the engineering operations going on there; and explained to them how in a few more weeks the great embankment on which he had been engaged for the last three years would be completed. They returned home by Welstone and the village-green; and there they dismissed the carriage, and proceeded home

on

foot in the pleasant evening sunshine.

Come, won't you offer your arm to Miss Sherlock?' said Mr. Holdfast to Gilbert. 'We old folks can saunter on at our own pace.'

So Gilbert and Mary had to lead the way homewards together. They had not avoided each other, but it had so happened that they had scarcely come in contact yet. They had stood side by side behind the bride at the altar (how strange the position seemed to both!), but they had never been alone together. Their conversation, as they walked along, turned naturally on the wedding. They were each glad to have that to discuss; it served as a topic all the way home. But as they entered the Grange garden, where the quaint old yews loomed black and purple against the orangetinted sky, Mary said

'I have read your book, and like it. I was not mistaken in my opinion of what you could and ought to do. You must be near the outskirts of that wood of difficulty you once seemed lost in, and see before you glimpses of a fair

horizon?'

'Yes. If I had listened to my own cowardly heart, I should have given up at one time, I'm afraid. But I listened to a better counsellor. Unlike most prophets, you helped to give the power to achieve what you foretold. Many a time your words came back to me, and raised my flagging courage.'

I am glad of it. I always had confidence that you would succeed. This unbought praise, sounding louder every day about you, must be sweet in your ears.' 'Very sweet. But that one honest phrase, "I have read your book, and like it," is sweeter; because I know you would tell me its faults, and blame instead of praise, if truth required it.'

'I hope so.'

them.

They were back at the

Grange doors now.

The next morning, Mary and her friends took their departure. At the moment of leave-taking, the Lieutenant cordially invited Gilbert to go over and see them at the Sands before his return to London.

'Thank you,' he replied; 'I shall not go away without coming to see my old friends.' And then the Sherlocks drove off in 'Barker's' sociable, as of yore, and Gilbert was left alone with his father and Mr. Holdfast at the Grange.

He stayed one month there, dividing his time between his work, his horse, and the society of his father and his father's old friend.

But happy as Gilbert was in this reconciliation with his father, there was still a void left in his heart-a sense of incompleteness in his life. He had not come across Mary Sherlock again without finding old hopes revive. He did his best--he had been doing his best for many a month-to keep down the ghosts that roamed his inner world; but they were not to be laid.

So it came about that when the last day of his visit to the Grange arrived, and he set off for Skegsthorpe Sands, he carried with him. a doubting heart, much questioning whether he had any right to go there at all, feeling as he felt.

CHAPTER LXVII.

SELF-KNOWLEDGE.

It was well-nigh evening before Gilbert reached his journey's end, though the mid-day sun had shone upon him at starting, for he was in a wavering frame of mind, and more than once turned round his horse, and began to retrace his road.

'If he could only know Mary's own present feelings,' he said to himself as he went along. If he

words that had separated them had been spoken more from distrust of his love than from the absence of love in her own heart. Not for the world would he approach the subject again, if he thought it would distress her as before. But was it not just possible that

And then, whenever he reached that point in his meditations, he always pushed on again with a flutter of hope. He would see how she received him-see what her manner towards him augured, and by that he would determine whether he might re-open the subject, or whether it behoved him as a man of honour never again to speak to her of love. So, much debating with himself, he slowly continued his journey along the flat marsh road, and evening was upon him when he reached Skegsthorpe Sands.

It was very strange to him to find himself back again in the old hamlet, where everything looked so unchanged, whilst he himself felt so altered, since last he was there.

He put up his horse at 'Barker's' (the marvellous hostelry was as deserted of guests as of yore-the long-room as much a solitude, the bathing machine as far from filling those purposes for which it must originally have been constructed), and then, in the gathering dusk, he walked on to Lieutenant Sherlock's house.

Even at the last, when within fifty yards of the dwelling, Gilbert was inclined to turn back and flee the temptation that might be coming. But he went on-telling himself that he would be guided by the reception he met with, and by Mary's conduct he would shape his

own.

But it was no easy thing to form the judgment he had counted on forming. From the moment of his arrival, Mary's manner was what it always had been-friendly, frank, and unembarrassed. He found her

sitting with her aunt in the parlour, in the old fashion, when he arrived, with her work-basket (the one from which he had once stolen a glovethe sight of it sent a little stab through him) on the table by her side. Mary showed no great pleasure at seeing him; but she made him feel welcome, nevertheless.

'Her father would have been disappointed had he not come over to say "good-bye" before he returned to London. Oh, yes, he was expected. But why had he not written to say when he was coming?'

It

It was just the old easy natural manner, tinged with a certain womanly dignity and self-possession that had come upon her these later years. Gilbert was almost inclined to quarrel with this manner. put them back instantly on that old footing of friendship which he was more and more beginning to discern was (for him at least) an impossible footing. But Mary had long since made up her mind that she had done right in refusing him as she had done that he had mistaken his feelings, as she had told him. She expected that long ere this he himself had come to a like conclusion, and was fully content that they should settle down into friendslife-long friends-but nothing more.

And so two days went by, and the last evening came, and Gilbert had not yet opened out his heart to her. He felt pretty sure that it would be useless-that she intended him to understand that there was a leaf in the book of the past which they could not turn to again. And yet he felt he must speak ere they parted. At one moment it seemed to him that it was ungenerous to do so; the next, he felt it cowardly to hesitate.

air above, like fairy islands in some enchanted seas. Gleams of colour reached even into the cold grey east, where the cold grey sea lay sullenly awaiting the descent of night.

Standing by the flagstaff on the bank just above the coast-guard station, Gilbert and Mary were watching the sun sink down behind the far-off ridge that marked the point where the wold country and the wide marsh land joined. The lieutenant had just been called aside by one of the coast-guard. They stood alone, and had not spoken for some moments (for before them was one of those spectacles which induce silence rather than speech), when Gilbert, looking at the red west, said

'I shall have a different scene to gaze on to-morrow night, from my windows in Meggett's Gardens. I am afraid I shall resent my neighbour's dirty blinds and frowsy flower-pots more than ever.' 'You really go then ? '

to-morrow,

'Yes; your father is kind enough to urge my staying, but I have been holiday-making long enough. It sadly unsettles a man for work, and I have plenty of that before me yonder.'

He wished she would say something about his staying a little longer, or a word to show that she was sorry he was going. But she said no such word. She stood, like him, watching the last glimmer fade off a golden cloud where the sun had just gone down. 'If she speaks again before the light dies off that cloud, I'll tell her all,' said he to himself, in one of those strange moods when men seek to thrust their responsibilities on something outside their own will; 'but if not, I'll leave it unsaid.'

The light died off, and she had not spoken. He watched the greyness stealing over the landscape, the light and colour disappearing

from earth and sky, and a cold grey shadow seemed to settle down over his own soul. The moment had passed.

In silence they descended the bank, and moved homewards down the sandy road.

The lamp was lighted on the parlour table when they entered; but there was no one in the room. Gilbert thought he had better go on at once to 'Barker's' to order the 'sociable' to take him over to Gareham, to meet the night mail. We forgot to post papa's letter,' said Mary, taking up a letter from the mantelpiece. Will you put it

6

in the box as you pass?'

He took the letter from her hand, but instead of going off with it, stood looking at her with a strange hesitating air.

'You know it?-the little general dealer's shop nearly opposite the inn,' said Mary, thinking he was doubtful on that score.

He nodded his head and turned away. He had got to the door, when he suddenly stopped, turned round, and came back and stood just before her, in the full light of the lamp on the table. He looked very white.

'I can't do it,' he said; I can't go away like this. I must know the worst, even at the risk of losing your friendship for ever. I want to put to you the old question once more. Mary, is there no other answer to it possible than that you last gave me ?'

She did not speak. She had turned white as he, and all the blood in her body seemed to have rushed suddenly to her heart. But at that moment she could not have uttered a word for her life.

He stood looking at her with quick-drawn breath, and then went