downs, she would no doubt presently descry him returning with his booty, and, following up her plan, would continue to keep him in sight until her end was attained.

Sitting down under her tree, she waited, taking note neither of the wild life stirring about her nor of that part of nature which seemed to slumber in the midnight stillness.

The night birds were abroad, rabbits were feeding but a stone's throw away from her, somewhere in the rear of the copse a little stream was trickling; but the breeze had died down and the leaves over her head were motionless; the tufts of rank grass in the neighborhood of the copse stood with spears pointing upwards-tiny rigid blades of silver such as fairy warriors might have grasped.

Martha sat hugging her knees, turn ́ing her head occasionally from one side to the other, but making no further attempt to move.

By-and-by the moon set and the night was lighted only by myriads of stars, and then there came a kind of sigh passing through the wood, lifting the hair from Martha's forehead, making the grasses rustle; a bird note sounded, and then another, and another; there were stirrings among the boughs, flutterings of small birds, rattlings of heavier wings; then, as the breeze freshened, more distant branches creaked and groaned, one near the heart of the wood grating upon its fellows with almost irritating persistency.

Martha looked about her with fresh alertness. The grass out there in the open, even the leaves over her head were beginning to take color; the day was on the point of breaking.

Suddenly on her quick ear fell the report of a gun-shot followed after an interval by the sound for which she had been waiting during all these hours the sound of running feet.

Springing up, she rushed to the entrance of the glade, and, looking down its long dusky length, saw a man's figure emerge and pause, outlined against the growing radiance.

He was carrying a burden of some kind across his shoulder and was followed by a deerhound. Depositing his load on the ground, he began to reload his gun, Martha observing him with straining eyes and ears. The operation appeared to be of a complicated nature. He drew first one object and then another from his pockets, and presently there came the rattle and tap of a ramrod. The widow caught her breath quickly; the gun was a muzzleloader!

Now there came a shout a long way off from the direction of the keeper's house, and the man, catching up his burden, which she now saw to be a roe-buck, set off running, and followed by the hound, which almost seemed to dance along, disappeared into the undergrowth.

Martha made a few irresolute steps to right and to left, uncertain which course to pursue. If she ran to warn the keeper David would have disappeared by the time they got upon his track; on the other hand, how futile it would be for her to pursue him herself! Did not Keeper Meatyard say that once Davidge took to running he could distance both man and beast? woman would certainly have no chance of overtaking him. In her frenzy she did not ask herself what she should do if she did come up with him, how her strength could cope with his. Her one dread was that, in his endeavor to elude the keeper, he should give the slip to the police.

A

Suddenly an inspiration came to her; the old lime-kiln where he and Tamsine had hidden from Shepherd Cornick with such success-what more natural than that he should now make for the same harbor! He might lurk there in

safety until immediate danger was past, and even leave his quarry there until he could return under cover of the darkness to fetch it. Unless the keeper had actually seen him or the dog, he might suppose it to be impossible to verify his suspicions. But David Chant should not escape justice if Martha West could help it!

Even while these thoughts passed through her brain she had begun to run, her wrathful desire seeming to lend her wings. Here was the oak wood now, here was the path which led downward to the chalk-pit; yonder the clump of gorse and briar behind which she had hidden.

Running round the brink of the hollow till she reached the top of the kiln, and drawing aside the brambles, she looked hastily down; he was not there yet. If she should have gone on a wild-goose chase after all!

No! here was the sound of running feet again; perhaps in order to mislead the keeper David was purposely approaching his goal by a circuitous track.

Martha had only just time to dart across to her former place of ambush when he came in sight, running very swiftly, yet with a smile on his face.

Instead of following the winding path which led downwards to the bottom of the hollow, he made straight for the edge, and laying his gun carefully down within a yard of Martha's hand, pushed the dog over the steep side, saying to him the while with a laugh, "Over you go, old chap. That was a near shave. Isn't this fun!"

Martha, crouching in her lair, glanced from the gun, which she instantly recognized as that which had brought death to her young husband, to the face of his destroyer-excited, gleeful, evidently revelling in the adventure.

"Fun!"

With incredible quickness she seized

the gun, leaped to her feet, and just as David was about to let himself down into the hollow, sent the charge into his body.

It seemed to her that his eyes were still full of laughter during the second which intervened before he and the little buck rolled together into the pit.

She paused for a moment, thunderstruck at her own deed, then, in an access of wild terror, flung the gun from her and fled from the wood.

CHAPTER XXX.

Tamsine remained kneeling by the attic window after David had left her. She wept long, and an occasional sob still shook her as she watched the night, hoping always to hear the returning steps of her husband. Her eyes, heavy with tears, took note at length of how the surface of the dewy down grass became silvery gray in the morning twilight. She saw a sparrow or two fit out of the hedge and a starling preening himself on the apex of the cornstack, chattering meanwhile. "He will soon be home now," she thought. And then, suddenly, she knew not how, she fell asleep, her head resting on her arms, which were folded on the narrow sill.

Presently a shot rang out, reverberating over the silent downs.

Tamsine sprang up, broad awake, to find that day had fully dawned, and that the cheerful bustle of the outdoor world had begun. Fowls were clucking in the yard, pigs grunting, old Bob rattling his chain; and here was Shepherd Cornick descending the slope with Jack at his heels-and she was not dressed.

She rose from her knees, stooping lest Cornick should chance to raise his eyes and behold her still in her night gear, but as she entered her own room she heard, to her surprise, the shepherd's voice sounding from beneath her open window.

"Lard! of all the unlucky-where to?"

"I don't exactly know," faltered she. "He went towards the woods-before daybreak."

The shepherd clacked his tongue; Tamsine saw that his freckled face was pale.

"Look-see," he said, "we must get hold o' him somehow. They'll be up here lookin' for him afore we can turn round."

"What!" gasped she, falling back against the wall.

"There, poor soul, it's all come out about-well, you know what, I fancy. 'Twas that good-for-nothin' brother o' yours gettin' drinkin' an' talkin' about Davidge at the Cup o' Genuine last night-about the mark on his arm, ye know. And Dick West's cousin Harry did chance to be there, an' they do tell me he's gone off already to Branston for the police."

"Oh, merciful God!" gasped Tamsine, clasping her hands. She had no tears now.

"There, ye must keep up, my dear," said Cornick brokenly for his heart was wrung for the young forlorn creature. "But we mustn't lose a minute. We must search for him all roads. Have ye no notion at all where he mid be?"

Then, as she shook her head, "Maybe the dog 'ud find him.”

"He took Swift with him," rejoined she. "I think he's gone after the deer, Tim. Ye know they little roe deer what's up in the big wood? Last night he chanced to look out an' see two or three o' 'em crossing the downs.

over yonder"

"Well, then," interrupted Tim, "I'll run up to the big wood so fast as I can, an' go round by Holl Wood if I don't meet en; he mid come back that way, but you'd best bide here in case he gives me the slip. Pack him out o' this so quick as you can."

“I will, I will," groaned she. "Oh, Tim, hurry, hurry! No, wait; I'll gie ye some money- he'll want that-an' a bit o' food."

Drawing her cloak about her, she hurried downstairs and unlocked the drawer which held such loose cash as she kept in the house, and having hastily wrapped up some bread and meat, thrust the whole into Cornick's hand.

"He'll have to write when he can, so as I mid join him," she said breathlessly.

Cornick turned away, carrying with him the memory of the bare-footed, girlish figure, with the dark hair falling about such a white, terrified face. Tamsine's blue eyes, so piteous now, seemed to haunt him.

"God help her!" he said, and he drew the back of his hand across his own eyes as he broke into a shambling run.

Tamsine dressed with all speed, and then took up her post at the attic window, scanning the downs as she had scanned them during the long hours of the night. Which would approach first, she asked herself-the dark forms of the police who came to drag her husband back to captivity, or David's young, careless figure, strolling homewards in ignorance of his impending doom? What she dreaded most of all was that both should appear simultaneously, and that the pursuers should catch sight of their victim before she had time to warn him. As this thought struck her she turned from the window, and running downstairs and out of the house, climbed to the top of that fold of down which sheltered it,

whence she could obtain a view of both approaches to the house.

-All at once her heart stood still. Something was moving yonder in the brake-now it emerged from it-a flying shape the dog, David's dog, came galloping towards her, rapidly covering the ground by his immense strides; but Tamsine saw that he was alone, and soon perceived that the animal's long-sighted eyes had taken note of her presence and that he was making straight for her.

Now he was upon her, almost knocking her over in the violence of his onslaught, his great paws on her shoulders, his hot breath on her face, his eyes glowing almost red with eagerness. Then in a moment she went staggering back as Swift leaped aside, and wheeling, turned in the direction whence he had come; bounded forward, and then returned, gazing at her beseechingly, making a step or two towards the wood, and evincing an unmistakable desire that she should follow him.

"Good Swift, clever Swift!" cried she, tears springing to her eyes in gratitude to the dumb creature who was her husband's friend.

David had doubtless heard of his danger and was in hiding, and the faithful beast had come to show her his whereabouts.

They ran along together, the dog leaping in advance, but always returning, Tamsine's feet carrying her with a swiftness lent to her by the extremity of fear and desire.

The dog made straight for the oak wood, and presently took a sharp turn to the left, then wheeled to see if Tamsine were following.

"Of course!" exclaimed she, "he's gone to the old lime-kiln-I mid ha' knowed that 'ud be the very place he'd choose."

The dog disappeared over the lip of the hollow, and she came hurrying af

ter, her eyes fixed on the arched entrance to the kiln, so that she tripped and almost fell over an unexpected obstacle in the path.

It was a gun, David's own gun, thrown down in full view of any passer-by. She was about to stoop and pick it up when a whine from the dog made her look round. He had not approached the kiln, but had run round the tangles of briars beside which the path wound. She could see him crouching on his haunches beside something.

With a cry she hastened forward. There, on the thyme-grown bank where they had so often sat together, lay David, one arm lying feebly across the neck of the great hound, his head pillowed on the russet flank of a dead roe deer.

His eyes met hers as she approached, and he smiled faintly, but she knew that there was death in his face, even before, on throwing herself down beside him, she saw that the mossy sward where he lay was dyed red.

"Oh, David," she gasped, "David, they've shot ye an' left ye here to die. Oh my God, could anyone be so cruel as that!"

"No, no," he said feebly-"'twas my own gun."

Even in that supreme moment he maintained the resolution he had taken with regard to the two women; he would not betray Martha nor trouble his wife.

But Tamsine's face was now convulsed with an awful fear; her mind was still running on his pursuers, and she fancied that he had destroyed him. self, according to the threat often made in former days, rather than allow himself to fall alive into their hands.

"Oh, may God forgive ye, my poor love!" she groaned. "Is it possible you've taken your own life?" He smiled again, with even something of gentle amusement, such as she had

often seen evoked by her simple speeches.

"An' why should I do that?" he murmured. "Me that was so happy."

He knew nothing-he need never know! Thank God for that.

She threw her arms about him and kissed him, unable to speak, and he kissed her back with the remnant of his strength.

"Yes," he went on, "we've been very happy, haven't we? Yet I d' 'low if I'd ha' lived I mid ha' brought you trouble, love. I was startin' to gie ye trouble even now— How long was we together afore that Sunday when thik I see'd little buck?" "Three weeks," answered she, with an irrepressible sob.

"Three weeks," he echoed. "Wellwe've a-had those three weeks, haven't we?-an' now I've a-had to pay my reckonin'."

A shudder shook her frame. It seemed to her for the moment as if David had been struck down in the very act of revolt by an avenging Heaven, the stiffening form of the dead deer bearing witness to his misdeeds. In some inexplicable way he had doubtless injured himself with his gun. The fate which had overtaken him was the direct consequence of his own sin. To her untutored mind, now clouded by sorrow, the slaughter of the innocent animal, the direct breach of the law, was a crime differing only in degree from the act which had originally cut off David from existence amid his fellows. Her heart stood still within her for a moment, and then her faith, strong and living for all its simplicity, came to her rescue.

you're good-you showed me all the good I ever knowed."

Tamsine sat up, rallying all her strength. If indeed she had been able to help him in the past, surely she could help him now.

Gently edging herself into the place hitherto occupied by the dead roe, she pillowed her husband's head on her lap, and bending over him, looked into his eyes.

""Tis true, 'tis true that God's good, David," she said earnestly. "He'll forgive ye if ye turn to Him. There's no sins so great that He won't forgive them. He did say Himself-even if they was red as scarlet

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David looked up with eyes already dim; his lips moved, and she bent closer to catch what he said.

"A thread o' scarlet," he murmured. "Thy lips as a thread o' scarlet, an' thy speech comely.' That's in your song, Tamsine."

"Oh, David, David," she exclaimed, almost voicelessly. "You mustn't think o' me now--think o' God, the great God you're a-goin' to meet. David, dear David, lift yourself up to Him!"

Her tears dropped upon his face, but he was smiling.

"You-lift me up," he said.

Drawing this inert form a little higher into her embrace so that his head rested on her bosom, she raised her voice in obedience to a sudden inspiration, and began to sing.

She forgot all about the threatened advent of the police; in that solemn moment she scarcely realized her own overwhelming sorrow; she only thought of David's ebbing life and that it behoved her to make the most of the few moments that remained to turn his

vid had always loved to hear her sing.

Sitting there, with her world crumbling to ruins about her, she put the whole intensity of her faith and love into the words which were to be the