! It was barely possible to do it. And
perhaps it would have been done, if at that moment the good little
Black Cock had not stumbled on a loose stone, gone down almost to his
knees, and recovered himself with a violent wrench--lame! Chichester
was a fair runner and a good walker. But he knew that the steep sandy
hills which lay between him and Tadousac could never be covered in
fifteen minutes. He gave the reins to the driver, leaned back in the
seat, and folded his arms.

At twenty-five minutes past twelve the buckboard passed slowly down the
main street of Tadousac, bumped deliberately across the bridge, and
drew up before the hotel. The little white chapel on the other side of
the road was shut, deserted, sleeping in the sunlight. On the long
hotel piazza were half a dozen groups of strangers, summer visitors,
evidently in a state of suppressed curiosity and amusement. They fell
silent as the disconsolate vehicle came to a halt, and Arthur Asham,
the Harvard brother, in irreproachable morning costume and perfect
form, moved forward to meet it.

"Well?" said Chichester, as he stepped out.

"Well!" answered the other; and they went a few paces together on the
lawn, shaking hands politely and looking at each other with unspoken
interrogations.

"I'm awfully sorry," Chichester said, "but it couldn't be helped. A
chapter of accidents--I'll explain."

"My dear fellow," answered young Asham, "what good will that do? You
needn't explain to me, and you can't explain to Ethel. She is in her
most lofty and impossible mood. She'll never listen to you. I'm awfully
sorry, too, but I fear it's all over. In fact, she has driven down to
the wharf with the others to wait for the Quebec boat, which goes at
one. I am staying to get the luggage together and bring it on
to-morrow. She gave me this note for you. Will you read it?"

Asham politely turned away, and Chichester read:

MY DEAR MR. CHICHESTER:

Fortunate indeed is the disillusion which does not come too late.
But the bridegroom who comes too late is known in time.

You may be sure that I have no resentment at what you have done; I
have risen to those heights where anger is unknown. But I now see
clearly what I have long felt dimly--that your soul does not keep
time with the music to which my life is set. I do not know what
_other engagement_ kept you away. I do not ask to know. I know
only that ours is at an end, and you are at lib