llen favorite. The other riders had seen the
accident in time, and, swerving their mounts aside, they had rushed on
to the finish, while the Marquis lay there in the dust pleading for help
with his mournful eyes. A veterinary bent over the horse's wound. He
held a hurried consultation with the owner; then some one placed a
revolver against the poor beast's head; there was a loud report, a
convulsive kick, and the noble racer lay dead on the field he had
striven so hard to win. A pair of work-horses was brought on to the
course and all that remained of the Marquis was dragged away, while over
by the little lake, under the shade of an elm, Jockey Gannon lay
stretched on the turf. A physician was by his side, and a crowd of
curious people gazed at the pale face before them. "He may live till
morning," the physician said, and then the wounded jockey was silently
borne away. The band played again, the blood stains on the course were
covered by fresh dirt, and the bell rang for the next race. People asked
a few questions about the dying man, and then he was forgotten in the
excitement of the sport. It was only a jockey.

"You see, you brought me luck, Mrs. Sanderson," Duncan said to Marion,
after he had returned from getting his Belle of Newport ticket cashed.
"Two hundred dollars for forty. That is luck, isn't it?"

"Yes, but that reminds me of the accident. Do you know, I feel quite
unnerved after that sight."

"You had better walk with me on the lawn. It will do you good, I am
sure."

"I hope so," said Marion as she rose to go with him.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour they walked up and down the lawn,
chatting away unconcernedly about the people around them. It was the
first time they had been alone together since Duncan's return, but he
made not the slightest reference to their last meeting. He was careless
and unconcerned, and Marion tried to appear the same, but there was a
strange feeling in her heart, half of fear and half of resentment, which
told her that indifference had no place there. She laughed and chatted,
but waited anxiously, thankful that so many people were there, but
hopeful that he might say something to tell her that he remembered the
words he had spoken at the Patricians' ball.

Suddenly Duncan stopped at a secluded part of the lawn where there was
an empty bench. "Let us sit down here in the shade. You must be tired,"
he said, and then, after they had taken seats, a moment of silence came,
an