me?" she said,
reproachfully. "Do not force me to oppose you, Harry, but if you are
wise, go around to the depot and find out when the steamers sail."

"Yes, my dear," Leslie acquiesced with a smile, which he did not mean
to be wholly ironical. "Would it be any use for me to say that I shall
miss you?"

"No," answered Millicent, though she returned his smile. "You really
would not expect me to believe you. Still, if only because of the
rareness of such civility, I rather like to hear you say so."

Mrs. Leslie sailed in the first Cunarder, and duly arrived at a little
station in the North of England where a dogcart was waiting to drive
her to Crosbie Ghyll. She had known the man, who drove it long before,
and he told her, with full details, how Anthony Thurston, having come
down from an iron-working town to visit the owner of the dilapidated
mansion had been wounded by a gun accident while shooting. The wound
was not of itself serious, but the old man's health was failing, and he
had not vitality enough to recover from the shock.

Meantime, while Millicent Leslie was driven across the bleak brown
moorlands, Anthony Thurston lay in the great bare guest-chamber at
Crosbie Ghyll. He had been a hard, determined man, a younger son who
had made money in business, while his brothers died poor, clinging to
the land, and it was with characteristic grimness that he was quietly
awaiting his end. The narrow, deep-sunk window in front of him was
open wide, though the evening breeze blew chilly from the fells, which
rose blackly against an orange glow. Though he manifested no
impatience, the sunset light beating in showed an expectant look in his
eyes. A much younger man sat at a table close by and laid down the pen
he held, when the other said:

"That will do, Halliday. Is there any sign of the dog-cart yet? You
are sure she will come to-night?"

"There is a vehicle of some kind behind the larches, but I cannot see
it clearly," was the answer. "You can rest satisfied, sir, for if Mrs.
Leslie has missed the train, she will arrive early to-morrow."

"To-morrow may be too late," said the old man. "I do not feel well
to-night. Yes, she will come. Millicent is like her father, and,
though he ruined himself, it was not because he hadn't a keen eye for
the main chance. Because I was a lonely man and because, in my
struggling days her mother was kind to me, I was fond of her. You
needn't be jealous, Halliday. You w