o the driving. It will be a distinct advantage
to me, though of course I would do it anyway for her sake."

Then it was well for the minister that he came of a race that can hold
its features in control. This easy naming of her name, the apparent
proprietorship, the radiant happiness in Clay's face, could mean but
one thing. He had been blind, blind, blind!

He heard himself saying mechanically.

"Yes, of course, I think it is the only thing to do," and Clay had gone
out whistling.

He sat for a few minutes perfectly motionless. Then a shudder ran
through him, and the black Highland blood surged into his face, and
anger flamed in his eyes. He sprang to his feet with his huge hands
clenched.

"He shall not have her," he whispered to himself. "She is mine. How
dare he name her!"

Only for a moment did he give himself to the ecstasy of rage. Then his
arms fell and he stood straight and calm and strong, master of himself
once more.

"What right have I?" he groaned wearily pressing his hands to his head.
"Who am I that any woman should desire me. Clay, with his easy grace,
his wit, his manliness, his handsome face, no wonder that she prefers
him, any woman would, and Clay is worthy, more worthy," he thought in
an agony of renunciation. He thought of Clay's life as he had known it
now for years. So fair and open and clean. "Yes, Clay is worthy of
her." He repeated it dully to himself as he walked up and down.

Every incident of the past three months came back to him now with cruel
distinctness--the sweetness of her voice, the glorious beauty of her
face, so full sometimes of life's pain, so strong too in the overcoming
of it, and her little hands--oh what pretty little hands they were--he
had held them once only for a moment, but she must have felt the love
that throbbed in his touch, and he had thought that perhaps--perhaps
Oh, unutterable blind fool that he was!

He pressed his hands again to his head and groaned aloud; and He who
hears the cry of the child or of the strong man in agony drew near and
laid His pierced hands upon him in healing and benediction.

The next Sunday the Reverend Hugh Grantley was at his best, and his
sermons had a new quality that appealed to and comforted many a weary
one who, like himself, was traveling by the thorn-road.

In Mrs. McGuire's little house there was nothing to disturb the reading
now, for the minister came no more, but the joyousness had all gone
from Mary's voice, an