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(Continued.)

“What's the good of fencing?”’ gays he.

“T can see how changed you are since— since last we met.’’ His pause has some- how brought back to her the garden— his words—the pressure of his lips against her cheek. Her lovely color dies and she grows very pale! Oh! what a fool she had been!

‘‘T am changed,’’ says she in a low. but clear voice. ‘*Il have been thinking. You with a swift glance at him— “have given me time to think.’’

If you mean that because I was: little late to-day’’

“Well, you were a little late!’’ She has stopped. She is tracing something. on he ground at her feet ‘The fact is, I have come to the conclusion that we have mad istake si

wh

“Well, then, I, if you will have it so. bear all the blame.”’

‘You prefer some one else?’’

“No,’’ with a frown, ‘‘there is nothing of that in it. But the mistake is there ¢ the amine

“IT wish you would place it.’’

She hesitates for a moment, and then. as though compelling herself, goes on:—

“IT think you wish to marry me, only because you cannot get this money un- less you do.

There is a long silence—then :—

‘Except that I am sure you could not mean deliberately to hurt any one,”’ says he coldly, ‘‘I should take that as a direct insult. I may say, however, that you are

making a great mistake. I would not marry you unless I liked you, if you had the rnines of Golconda.’’

‘“You are not, however, prepared to say you love me?’’ says Hilary, whose face is now quite colorless.

“I hardly know how I feel toward you,’’ says Ker, which at this moment is perhaps as honest a thing as ever he said in his.life. Hts anger leaves his jud::- ment blind.

“Don't you?" Hilary smiles a rather fugitive smile. You hate me!"’

At this astonishing declaration, Ker, aftera moment’s angry pause, bursts out laughing. Jt is a very ironical laugh, and drives Hilary to the very limits of her temper.

‘‘Any one can laugh,”’ says she. ‘‘ But for all that I tell you the truth. I will ask you one question. Would you choose me as your wife if you suddenly found that I had not a penny in the world?’’

‘‘Certainly,’’ says Ker. But he is so angry now that his voice denies his asser- tion.

Hilary shrugs her shoulders.

The shrug maddens him.

‘Well, is that what you didn’t want me to say?’’

“I don’t know that I wanted you te say anything.”’ :

‘**Look here,’’ says Ker slowly, calmly, and full of the grand knowledge that he is bow proving himself a thoroughly equitable creature, who has the power at any moment to put his temper beneath

‘Then I'll tell you.

his feet, even when most incensed. ‘* Let us talk this over calmly.’

Hilary turns upon him.

“One would think,’ says she, her

lovely face lighted up by the fire ofa just indignation, ‘‘it was I who Was not calm.’’ what I desire should both be calm.’’

It is plain to earth and sky now that he, at all events, is anything but calm!

“What I want,’’ says Miss Burroughs with dignity, ‘‘is that you should keep your temper !’’

“I? Keep my temper?

Most

is that we

"OL course,

I assure you it

Was never better under my control than at this present moment.’’ “Then all I can say is, I’m sorry for

the other moments!”’

This, of course, makes an end of all things.

Slowly, in dogged silence, they walk back to the house. Just before they reach it. Ker addresses her once more—‘‘for the last time’’ is writ large on every word he utters.

‘That is settled then?’’

‘*I suppose so.’’

‘*T shall go back to India next week.’’

‘‘No great hardship, is it? Most men like India.’’

‘“‘No wonder; it’s about the best place Lots of fun and shooting. I have only one thing to regret, and that is that I ever left it.’? This is distinctly rude, but he sticks to it.

“It does seem a pity!’’ says Miss Bur- roughs calmly. If he had hoped to take a rise out of her he has failed signally.

She turns to him presently.

**l should like you. to take back this,’ says she, holding out her hand with the florin in it. ‘‘It was such a stupid affair

2g iin: or.

all through, was it not?’ ‘More than that?’’ coldly. ‘Criminal!’ with a rather mocking

sniile. ‘*Well, I don’t wish to be remina- ed of it then.’’

Neither do I.’’ lak ng the coin, he flings 1t¢ intoa eush on his right hand. All seems at an end, indeed They are within two yards of the hall- co¢tr now, and as | Hilary turns to bid him

an ever ecbhines

adieu Bridget rushes down and up to Hilary.

Po =? . ial SiLeps i

CHAPTER XVI.

“Oh, Miss Hilary com ! the masther is in What wid sendin’

minit :

, I thought ye’d nivir sich a_ state! to the door for ye ivery

ould man in the study!”

ind the

“aoe Ora Man in the study” “Yes, miss. Raal ould! The misthress tould me to stand on the hall-door-step,

an’ bring ye in, whin ye came, an’ Mis- ther Ker if he was wid ye. An’ sure,” with a merry glance from between her

roguish Irish Hds, ‘‘ but there?’’

where would he be

‘‘But’’—Ker is standing a good way behind, ‘‘why, Bridget?’’ ‘Faix, I don’t know, miss. Barrin’ it

is the ould gintleman that’s the cause of it. He’s from London Town, I’m think- in’; a sort of a grand sort of law man, an’ it’s something about a will. I think.”’ If is plain that Bridget has been ap- plying ner pest ear to tne Keyhole ofr the study with great effect. Hilary’s face grow disturbed.

round and beckons somewhat haughtily to Ker. Her face is very white.

‘‘It appears that there is a a lawyer, acquainted with my—our’— reluctantly—‘aunt’s will, and he wishes to see you as well as me.’’

‘‘But how—?’’ begins Ker.

She disdains reply, however, and leads him to Jim’s study.

* * * * *

The interview is at an end. man’’ has gone back to London. brought strange news, however—strange enough to induce him, the second partner in the great firm, to come all the way to Ireland to explain it. A second will has been discovered, written by the old aunt, that entirely upsets the first terrible

roan _ here,

She turns |

‘*The ould | He has |

one, that would have destroyed. or caade

the lives of two young people. will is quite clear. Of the £18,000 a year, left by the old aunt, one half is to go to Hilary, the other half to Frederic Ker. There are no restrictions whatsoever.

This latter |

Jim and Diana have gone to speed the |

old lawyer on his journey. They bad begged him to spend a month, a _ night, a week, a day even, with them, so thank- ful were they for his intelligence, but all to no effect. Sadly they follow him to the

door, sorry in that they can show no gratitude beyond words to the man who has delivered poor dear Hila from her hateful dilemma. And she de been so good all through, poor darling, so anx-

ious to do what was right (only because they had asked her), it was but an hour ago indeed that she had rebelled. She had found the task too hard for her. Now the task is at an end. Won't she be delighted !

Meantime they have left the study— and Hilary and Ker face to face.

A deadly silence ensues, quiet reigns within this room. Ker is looking out of the window, and Hilary is trifling with a book or two on the table. She has told herself she ought to go, but still—one or two words must be spoken. One should even bid the worst people adieu when one has spent an hour or so with them. One should never be rude

‘‘What a fortunate turn things have taken,’’ says she, moving the books about a little indiscriminately.

“veyr."*

He comes back from the window, and

faces her from the other side of the table. ‘Yes. We are free.’’ Her air is quite

as cold as before, yet somehow he knows that there is a change in it, a subtle change.

“*Entirely free.’’

‘I’m so glad,’’ says Hilary, with care- ful dignity. ‘‘Because, once having de- cided that a marriage between us would be madness, I felt that perhaps I was doing you an injustica’”’

“It is too good of you to trouble your- self so much about me.”’

“I was troubled myself, too; or, per- haps, I should not have thought so much—about you. You see, my refusal to marry you meant your losing a great deal of money.”’

‘‘T am not so wedded to money as you seem to imagine.”’

‘*I did not accuse you of that. I,’’ in- dignantly, ‘‘only accused you of being willing to marry me without loving me.’’

‘*And what did that mean?’’ He al- most laughs at the absurdity of her rea- soning. And in truth she has lost herself @ little. She makes a petulant movement, and wisely turns the conversation.

‘*You are going back to India, then?’’

“Tes.”'

** At once?’’

‘*As soon as ever I can;’’ with a sudden touch of anger: ‘‘Why do you ask me? Surely you, who have ar- ranged my movements, are the one who must know most about them.”’

**T?”? she looks up. ‘‘I to arrange your movements?’’

“Yes, you!’’ He goes up to her and looks her deliberately in the face. ‘‘ Will you tell me you are not sending me back to India?”’

‘‘What are you saying?’’ says she, with an attempt at hauteur that fails her. To her horror she knows that she is trembl- ing. ‘‘Who am I, that I should arrange your movements?”’

‘“‘That is beside the question; though,”’ with a quick look at her, ‘‘I could an- swer you. Will you tell me that you did not refuse me?’’

‘‘Ah! There was nothing to refuse!’’

‘‘There was me.’’

‘*You, but not your love.’’

‘‘Both! Both! I swear it. I swear it now, Hilary, with a clear conscience, when there is nothing to prevent your believing it. I love you. There is no gir? on earth like you, I think. I love you— speak to me!”’

But Hilary cannot speak. She makes a very brave struggle, and then, suddenly,

icily. Then,

Ake any Piiay vawy, met SAUVGN RU UP Of ier eres and, to her everlasting sname, she knows that she has burst into tears

Dear and blessed tears. ‘I’ hey tell him all things.

Suddenly she feels his arms. Her cheek is pressed to his. His love, on fire by reason of these tears, has now declared itself; that love, whic h he had half de rided, has carried him past wll controi. Like a tide it sweeping away all obstacles, straight to the goal of its desires.

herself caught in

rushes on, dashing

Hilary, in the midst of this whirl, loses herself a little. Instinctively she clings to him. From the very first she had felé a certain sympathy with Ker. Now she knows she loves him.

* ‘ * * *

“Now what was it all about?” asks

‘riive minutes later. “I think you

ve been so very

eed } hard on me, ust because I]

i happened to be a_ bit ‘Oh, no. We won't talk about it any more,’’ sit ila smiling at him it is true, but ting w little sigh eseape her. “Yes we wili though. I can’ see by your eye t all right yet.’’

“Well, 1li teli you the truth, Fred. I,” hinshiny hatly ‘“‘cidn’'t lilee to think you had found Sirs. Dyson-Moore more attractive tran me.’’

“Mrs. Dyson-Mocre! Heavens and earth! a thousand Mrs. yson- Moores wouldn’t have kept me from yeu. Why, I wasn’t within a mile of her all day.”’

“NOG” faltering, ‘“‘with her. Then

wo Cor dt 1 n Was ¢ co ) LOW

‘*Oh, Fred!’ she springs to her feet. “OR, What must you think of me?’’

“I needn’t tell you,’’ laughing, “you know. I went up to Cork to get you this—’’ He puts his hand in his pocket. ‘‘Why?—Where? Oh, here it is!’’

He pulls out a little case, opens it, and tuking her hand, slips an exquisite dia- mond ring upon her engaged finger.

Hilary looks at him, and then, impul- sively going nexrer to him, and kisses him.

lifts her head

‘‘T oughtn’t to take it. I oughtn’t Feally,’’ says she dejectedly. ‘‘I’m not worthy of it. All the time you were thinking of me, 1—’’

‘Youn were thinking of me, too,

"Yes, but how?’’

‘‘Never mind, you were thinking of me. That’s the _— point.”’

“IT certainly was doing that—with a vengeance ! De you know, Fred, in all my y life before.

“I’m glad of that,’’ says Ker in a low tone, “Dy m glad my first gift to you has not been forestalled.’’

‘Your first!’ she pauses, and quite a distressed change grows on her face. ‘‘Oh, not your first! Fred—my florin! That was your first! Oh! how could you throw it away like that? Do you think we shall be able to find it again?’

‘If not,’’ laughing, ‘‘I can give you another.”’

“Oh, no. That or no other. I'm sure J know the spot where is fell, I—’’ She stops short, and colors violently.

‘““You what?’’ He takes her hands

1 never had | & ring

”

and presses his lips to her palms. Per- haps he knows what is coming. ‘*I watched where it fell; I meant to

go back and pick it up,’’ says she brave-

ly. but blushing until the tears come

into her eyes. *‘What? Even when you

thought I was going away forever?’’ aa

‘Not a bit of it,’’ says Ker, closing his arms round her. ‘I'll tell you what you thought—what you knew—that nothing on earth would induce me to go away, so long as a shred of chance remained to me that you would still relent and marry me !"’

“I didn’t know that. No indeed. I felt sure you didn’t care—that you woeuld go!’’

‘*Well, you know now?

‘*Yes, and I wonder at it,’’ says shea, still in an extremely abased frame of mind, ‘‘considering how bad I have been to you all along.”’

‘‘T am a wronged man; I acknowledge that,’’ says Ker. ‘‘As there was to be an alteration in the will, I wish all the money had been left to me.”’

“How greedy of you!’

‘‘Not at all. Greediness has nothing to do with it. But such a will would have enabled me to prove to you the truth of some words I said to you to-day. Do you remember them? You asked me if I would marry you if you had not a penny

”

in the world, and when I said ‘Yes,’ you wouldn’t believe me.’’

‘*How could I?’ reproachfully.

‘But I said it.’’

‘*Yes—but in a tone.’’

‘“‘T meant it, however,’’ says he earn- estly. ‘“‘Though I can’t prove it. You have still—a penny !’’

‘‘No. No. Only a half-penny now,’’

says she with a delightful little glance. “And you have the other half. It is like the old broken sixpence! Why,’’ laughe-

ing, though a little lovers ”’

“For life!’ says he, in a low ton>. He Graws her to him.

Meantime Diana and her husband, in the morning-room, are discussing ‘the late turn of affairs with ereat spirit.

“It is the most fortunate thinz that could have happened for Hilary, any- way,’’ says Jim.

**Yes. I always her engagement with to nothing.”’

‘*So did I,’’ with disgust. ‘‘And after all it was a most confounded will!’’

‘*You see, Hilary is not the sort girl to marry without love.”’

“I think any girl who could do it~”’

“Oh, Jim, but I really think you rather advised her to do it at first.’

“Not I. It was you who advised her. In my opinion the girl who could bring herself to marry a man simply for money’s sake ought to get the sack—’’

‘“My dear Jim! how dreadfully vulgar! That is what the servants say when— well—when one gives them warning— the sack, you know!”’

‘‘And the bowstring, I was about to add, when'’—with dignity—‘I was n- terrupted. Really, Diana, the head of the house ought sometimes to be shown the consideration that—’’

“Oh, bother!’ says Diana, reverently.

sh:ly, ‘‘we must be

felt—I always knew him would come

of a

most ir-

‘Jet us talk aboot Ui--~.

Wi a a lovely, darling ring! |

c¥en muWw won't marry \.

. ks , i taea éecah rather sorry that she Ker.’’

“Of course. well off then as she ui@ nhever satistied,’’

She would he

is at present,

twice as Women

“And this from yon!’ says Diana, tragically. ‘‘But look here, Jim. I really think oniy for Mrs. Dyson-Moore she

might have married him,.’’

‘You think she liked him then?’’

‘Well, J dor’t know. But that woman spoiled 10 all, however it was. She kept him awey from Hilary to-day. There is no doubt about that. And at the MeIp- tyres’ dance you must have noticed how She flirted with him.’’

“She'd flirt with a broomstick."

‘*Nobody would mind a broomstick.

The thing is that Hilary opjecred to her flirting with Mr Wr.’

**Y think tne objected !’’

‘“*Nonsense, T’na that Fred is all he qughs t to be!’’

‘“‘Lhen the sooner we buy him a pedes- tal at the publie expense, and place him

qués..on is whether Ker

positive

“1 vy... RanxD —P. 4ad

on it, the sc¢ — ve shall be doing a public — \ll he ought to be! Diana! how man tim. s have you told me I was

nothing i pees to be appellation. Fred!

‘‘Oh, Jim, dearest, be serious, if only for five munutes. Somehow I had set my heart on this marriage; and now, because of this odi- ous Mrs. Dyson-Moore, 1t is all over. She has made some mischief—”’

‘*She’s to be in it where mischief says Clifford, with convic- tion. ‘“‘Anyway, it is all over now, and I, for one, am_ perfectly certain Hilary wouldn't hi ive looked at him. Girls are such for ih:

‘Well, ching, ‘‘perhaps so. She cer. ti inly tre wa him very cavallerly.’’

’t myake yourself miserable. over brom ali 1 Saw tL think they hated each other.’’

‘“Yes, yes, I suppose so.’’

‘“‘They’d have lead a most awful life!’’

“It would have killed darling Hilary!’

‘Or Ker! Man—brute as he is—has been known to die of ill-treatment. To my thinking, they are both well out of it!’

‘*Yes; it would never have done,’’

At this moment the door is pushed slowly open, and Hilary’s charming head appears. Another head is looking in over hers. It 1s Ker’s.

Mr. and Mrs. Clifford grows paralyzed.

‘‘Di—may we come in’’ Hilery’s voice is shy—her face is one soft, sweet blush. ‘‘I—we,’’ with a charming glanco be- hind, ‘‘want to tell you—that—’”’

‘‘That we are going to be married,” says Ker, in the frankest, clearest way.

‘*Oh,”’ says Diana, a little faintly— then she conquers her weakness, and suddenly finds herself embracing Hilary with extreme warmth.

“lam glad,’’ says she, giving her hands to Ker, who, however, appears dissatisfied with them, as he stoops and kisses her cheek. “And sois Jim We always desired this delightful solution of the—difficulty—and now, when there is no difficulty, it is ali the more delight- ful. In fact, Jim and I were just now saying—’’

She catches Jim’s eye, and breaks down ignominicusly. What had they just been saying?

“Yes, it is a great surprise. der Diana is overwhelmed,” says Jim. “She was about to say we were just dwelling on—on the—’’ he pauses omin- ously, and Diana’s knees grow weak, ‘fon the happiness that woul be yours if you made up your minds to spend your lives together.’’ His tone is sweet- ness and light itself.

‘‘Dear old Jim!’’ says Hilary, affeo- tionately. She has not see that Diana ts growing apoplectic. Presently she carries uway her new possession with her for x stroll through the garden, and Diana and Jim remain once more face to face and alone.

‘“Who’d have thought it?’ says Diana, solemnly. ‘‘ But, after all, I°m sure they will be happy! Hilary is euch a darling, and he—seems so delightful, so kind; frank, I call him!’

‘Frank! Nonsense, Diana. Itisn't five minutes ago since you calledhim Pred?’

At this they both give way to subdued but uncontrollable laughter.

It was such a relief.

THE END.

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