the brief and distressing scene which followed it may be well to
drop a veil. Leonard's bitterness of mind forsook him now, and he kissed
her and comforted her as he might best, even going so far as to mingle
his tears with hers, tears of which he had no cause to be ashamed. At
length she tore herself loose, for the shouts were growing louder and
more insistent.

"I forgot," she sobbed, "here is a farewell present for you; keep it
in memory of me, Leonard," and thrusting her hand into the bosom of her
dress she drew from it a little packet which she gave to him.

Then once more they kissed and clung together, and in another moment she
had vanished back into the snow and darkness, passing out of Leonard's
sight and out of his life, though from his mind she could never pass.

"A farewell present. Keep it in memory of me." The words yet echoed in
his ears, and to Leonard they seemed fateful--a prophecy of utter loss.
Sighing heavily, he opened the packet and examined its contents by the
feeble moonlight. They were not large: a prayer-book bound in morocco,
her own, with her name on the fly-leaf and a short inscription beneath,
and in the pocket of its cover a lock of auburn hair tied round with
silk.

"An unlucky gift," said Leonard to himself; then putting on his coat,
which was yet warm from Jane's shoulders, he also turned and vanished
into the snow and the night, shaping his path towards the village inn.

He reached it in due course, and passed into the little parlour that
adjoined the bar. It was a comfortable room enough, notwithstanding its
adornments of badly stuffed birds and fishes, and chiefly remarkable for
its wide old-fashioned fireplace with wrought-iron dogs. There was no
lamp in the room when Leonard entered, but the light of the burning wood
was bright, and by it he could see his brother seated in a high-backed
chair gazing into the fire, his hand resting on his knee.

Thomas Outram was Leonard's elder by two years and cast in a more
fragile mould. His face was the face of a dreamer, the brown eyes were
large and reflective, and the mouth sensitive as a child's. He was a
scholar and a philosopher, a man of much desultory reading, with refined
tastes and a really intimate knowledge of Greek gems.

"Is that you, Leonard?" he said, looking up absently; "where have you
been?"

"To the Rectory," answered his brother.

"What have you been doing there?"

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes, of course. Did