of a cricket match that two boys
of about twelve and fourteen years were giving him. He was a
strikingly handsome man, in the prime of life, with a thoroughly happy
expression. He took James' card in a careless fashion, listened to the
end of his sons' story, and then looked at it. Instantly his manner
changed; he stood up, and said promptly,

"Go away now, Miss Margaret, and you also, Angus and David; I have an
old friend to see." Then to the servant, "Bring the gentleman here at
once."

When he heard James' step he went to meet him with open hand; but
James said,

"Not just yet, Mr. McFarlane; hear what I have to say. Then if you
offer your hand I will take it."

"Christine is dead?"

"Dead, dead."

They sat down opposite each other, and James did not spare himself.
From his discovery of the note in old Starkie's possession until the
death of Christine, he confessed everything. Donald sat with downcast
eyes, quite silent. Once or twice his fierce Highland blood surged
into his face, and his hand stole mechanically to the place where his
dirk had once been, but the motion was as transitory as a thought.
When James had finished he sat with compressed lips for a few moments,
quite unable to control his speech; but at length he slowly said,

"I wish I had known all this before; it would have saved much sin and
suffering. You said that my indifference at first angered you. I must
correct this. I was not indifferent. No one can tell what suffering
that one cowardly act cost me. But before the bill fell due I went
frankly to Uncle David and confessed all my sin. What passed between
us you may guess; but he forgave me freely and fully, as I trust God
did also. Hence there was no cause for its memory to darken life."

"I always thought Christine had told her father," muttered James.

"Nay, but I told him myself. He said he would trace the note, and I
have no doubt he knew it was in your keeping from the first."

Then James took it from his pocket-book.

"There it is, Mr. McFarlane. Christine gave it back to me the hour she
died. I promised her to bring it to you and tell you all."

"Christine's soul was a white rose without a thorn. I count it an
honor to have known and loved her. But the paper is yours, Mr.
Blackie, unless I may pay for it."

"O man, man! what money could pay for it? I would not dare to sell it
for the whole world! Take it, I pray you."

"I will not. Do as you wish with it, James, I can trus