ey of Veath, after all."

Lady Tennys was in her room, strangely calm and resigned. She was
wondering whether he would ever come back to her, whether she was ever
to see him again. Her tired, hopeless brain was beginning to look
forward to the dismal future, the return to England, the desolate life
in the society she now despised, the endless regret of losing that which
she had never hoped to possess--a man's love in exchange for her own.
She kept to her room, avoiding the curious stare of people, denying
herself to the reporters and correspondents, craving only the loneliness
that made the hour dark for her. It seemed to her that she had lived a
lifetime since he went forth to find the girl who had waited so long
for him.

Then came the rush of footsteps in the hall. They were not those of the
slow-moving servants, they were not--a vigorous thumping on the door was
followed by the cry of a strong, manly, vigorous voice. Her head swam,
her heart stood still, her lips grew white and she could utter no sound
in response.

He was coming at last to commit her to everlasting misery.

The door flew open and Ridgeway bounded into the room. Before she could
move, he rushed over and drew her limp form from the chair, up into his
strong embrace. She heard a voice, tender and gladsome, as from afar
off, singing into her ear.

"Look up, darling! This is to be our wedding day--yours and mine! You
are mine--mine!"

The glad light slowly struggled back into her eyes, but it was as if she
had come from a death-like swoon. He poured into her dull ears the story
of the visit to Grace Vernon, but he was compelled to repeat it. Her
ears were unbelieving.

"Grace is coming here with Henry Veath," he said in the end. "By Jove, I
am happy!"

She held his face close to hers and looked deep into his eyes for a
long, long time.

"Are you sure?" she whispered at last. "Is it all true?"

"They'll be here in half an hour; but I haven't told them it was you
they are going to see. She loves Veath--loves him more than she ever
cared for me. I don't blame her, do you? Veath's a man--worthy of any
woman's love and confidence. Tennys, do you know what I've been thinking
ever since I left them fifteen minutes ago? I've been calling myself a
cad--a downright cad."

"And why, may I ask?"

"Because Veath isn't one--that's all."

"But you are a man--a true, noble, enduring one. The year just gone has
changed you from the easy, thoughtless bo