ering of the brow, his hand now and then
at his cheeks, not so much to feel its pleasing roughness, as to show
the fine fingers of which he was so conscious. It demanded all his
strength to shake himself into equanimity, and Miss Mary felt rather
than saw it.

What ailed him? Something unusual was perturbing him. An influence, an
air, a current of uneasiness flowed from him and she shared his anxiety,
not knowing what might be its source. His every attitude was a new and
unaccustomed one. She concluded he must be unwell, and a commotion set
up in her heart, so that Dr. Colin's opening prayer went sounding past
her a thing utterly meaningless like the wind among trees, and love
that is like a high march wall separated her and her favourite from the
world.

She surrendered even her scruples of kirk etiquette to put out a hand
timidly as they stood together at the prayer, and touched Gilian softly
on the sleeve with a gush of consolation in the momentary contact.

But he never felt the touch, or he thought it accidental, for he was
almost feverishly waiting till that interminable prayer was ended that
he might have the last proof of the presence of the girl behind him.
The crimson hangings of the canopy shook in the stridor of Dr. Colin's
supplication, the hollows underneath the gallery rumbled a sleepy echo;
Rixa breathed ponderously and thought upon his interlocutors, but no
other life was apparent; it was a man crying in the wilderness, and
outside in the playground of the world the children were yet calling and
laughing content, the rooks among the beeches surveyed, carelessly, the
rich lush policies of the Duke.

Gilian was waiting on the final proof, that was only in the girl's own
voice. He remembered her of old a daring and entrancing vocalist, in
the harmony one thread of gold among the hodden grey of those simple
unstudied psalmodists.

The prayer concluded, the congregation, wearied their long stand,
relapsed in their hard seats with a sense of satisfaction, the psalm was
given out, the precentor stuck up on the desk before him the two tablets
bearing the name of the tune, "Martyrs," and essayed at a beginning. He
began too high, stopped and cleared his throat. "We will try it again,"
said he, and this time led the voices all in unison. Such a storm was
in Gilian's mind that he could not for a little listen to hear what he
expected. He had forgotten his awkwardness, he had forgotten his shame;
his erratic