lace round Miss Peters' little wintry throat. She
kissed it when she looked at it now, and placed it very near the
crotchet edging in her regard.

But it would take a much longer space than this story can afford to
recount all the presents that came to Beatrice Meadowsweet. From the
Bertram connection the gifts were of money value, from the Northbury
people they were rich with something better than money. Not one of Bee's
friends forgot her at this time.

September came on apace, and at last there wanted but a week of the
wedding day.

On a certain evening when the wind blew rather fresh from the sea,
Captain Bertram asked Beatrice to walk with him. She complied. They took
a long walk over the cliffs, and it was quite late and dark when they
returned home.

They had to pass the Manor on their way back to the Gray House, where
Bertram was to stay for supper.

As they walked along, talking gravely, for Beatrice did not often laugh
when alone with her lover, a slender and tall figure passed them quickly
in the darkness. Bertram, who was walking very close to Bee, stumbled
against her, and uttered a smothered oath.

"What is the matter?" she asked in astonishment. "Have you hurt
yourself?"

"No, I thought I recognized a face, but I must be mistaken."

"That slim girl who passed us so quickly just now? I, too, fancy I have
seen her before. Certainly she is a stranger here."

"Don't talk about her, Beatrice. It was a casual likeness. People look
so different--distorted by the darkness. To-night it is very dark. There
is no moon."

"Still, I can see," said Beatrice, pausing and looking back. "I can see,
and I fancy the stranger is standing still and looking at us. Back
there, by the hedge. Perhaps she is in trouble. Shall I run and speak to
her?"

"No, not for the world. Come home. Forget her."

His tone was almost rough. They walked on rapidly. The high wind of a
coming storm beat in their faces. Beatrice felt tired and dispirited,
and Bertram's agitation and complete change of manner puzzled her.

Presently they reached the house.

"Here we are at last; you will be glad of your supper," she said.

"No, thanks, I am not coming in."

"Not coming in? You promised. Mother expects you."

"Excuse me to-night, Beatrice. I have a headache. I shall go straight
home. Good-night. I'll come down early in the morning."

He took her hand, dropped it hastily, and almost before the door was
opened, had turned away. B