ife, the announcement I mean--no I don't
mean that--the sweetest thing is what has to be told. And now it is all
told--and just to think it was done in a church and before all those
people. And now they all know--and I am so glad! No girl ever had it
done like this before."

"Glad?" said Angus.

"Yes, glad--and proud--aren't you?"

But there was no response, save the old, old silent eloquence of love,
when lip speaks to lip its tender tale, scorning the aid of words.

"Let us go this way," said Margaret at length.

"Where does it lead to?"

"You shall see," she answered; "come away"--and together, still hand in
hand, they walked on.

"Let us rest here, Angus." He threw himself on the grass at her feet.

"Do you not know the place?" she said.

"No," said Angus, "were we ever here before?"

"Oh, Angus, how could you forget? Look again."

He looked again and sacred twilight memories began to pour back upon
him.

"That was in the gloaming, Angus, you remember. And the darkness has
often brooded over it since then--but it is all past now and it never
was so bright before."

"The darkness will come again," said Angus.

"But it will never be able to forget the light--and it will wait----
There is never any real brightness till the waiting's past."

The Sabbath stillness was about them and its peace was in their hearts.
They scarce knew why, and the world would have said that Shadow was
their portion; but, then and ever, true peace passeth all
understanding.

"Kneel down, Angus, kneel here beside me," she suddenly exclaimed.

"Kneel, Margaret! Why shall I kneel?"

"Never mind why--you shall see. Kneel down, Angus."

He knelt, wondering still; she removed his hat with her now ungloved
hands and threw it on the grass.

"Darling, I love you," she said, "and I know you are good and true. And
I was so proud this morning when you were to be ordained to God's holy
service--and it must not be broken off like this. Oh, Angus, when I saw
your face this morning, I feared so that your whole soul would turn to
bitterness and give itself up to hatred of that man. But it must not
be."

"Margaret, stop! Surely you must know----"

"Be still, Angus--it must not be. All this anguish must break in
blessing. Sorrow such as yours will be either a curse or a blessing--and
it must not be a curse. God's love can turn it into blessing--and so can
mine. We shall take up our cross together and shall see it blossom yet.
Oh, An