rnestness that was almost piteous. 'If
I have made a mistake before, this must be clear now. Oh, don't think
of such a thing. It never could be--never, never. I am very sorry if
I have pained you; but--but you don't know anything about me; and you
will soon forget, for we are both far too young--at least I am--to
think of such things; and--and I am very, very sorry.'

'But do you mean that I am never to think of it again, even as a hope?'
he said, slowly.

'Oh, I do mean that--I do! If there has been a mistake, let it be
clear now. Can I not be your friend?'

She held out her hand. After a second or so of hesitation, he took it.

'I know more of you than you suspect,' he said slowly, and with a touch
of hopelessness in his voice. 'I could see what you were the first
half-hour I had spoken to you. And I know you know your own mind, and
that you are sincere. Well, I had hoped for something else; but even
your friendship will be valuable to me--when I have had a little time
to forget.'

'Oh, thank you, thank you!' said Nan, somewhat incoherently. 'I know
you will be wise. You have your profession to think of; that is of far
more importance. I know you will be wise, and generous too, and
forgive me if the fault has been mine. Now, we will not speak of any
such thing again; let it be as if it had never been. Come.'

He pressed her hand in silence--it was a token of good-bye. These two
did not see each other again for more than three years.

CHAPTER X.

JINNY.

One night towards the end of that interval a strange scene occurred in
the old manor-house of Kingscourt, Wiltshire. From an early part of
the evening it was apparent that something unusual was about to take
place. The sleepy old mansion was all astir, a big fire blazed in the
fireplace of the hall, and even the long corridor, which was in effect
a picture-gallery, and ordinarily looked rather grim with its oak
panelling and dusky portraits and trophies of arms, had been so
brilliantly lit up that it seemed almost cheerful.

There was no cheerfulness, however, on the face of the lord of the
manor himself; and there was nothing but a keen and anxious sympathy in
the regard of his friend the Vicar, who had come to keep him company.
The former, Stephen Holford King, was a hale old man of over seventy,
with a smoothly-shaven face grown red with exposure to the weather,
silvery short-cropped hair, and fine, impressive features. His old