eturn. As he did not
wish her to come to Abchester at present, he abstained from pressing the
point, believing that McMahon would speedily collect a sufficient force
at Versailles to suppress the insurrection.

He found Mr. Brander looking much more himself. It was a very subdued
likeness, but he had evidently gained strength greatly.

"I have been longing for your return," he said, as soon as Cuthbert
entered the library. "I am eager to get out of this and to go away. Have
you brought down the deed?"

"Here it is; it is all stamped and in due form, and needs only your
signature and that of two witnesses."

Mr. Brander rang the bell.

"John, call Gardener in. I want you both to witness my signature." The
coachman came in.

"Glad to see you again, Mr. Cuthbert," he said, touching an imaginary
hat.

"I am glad to see you, Gardener. I knew you were still here."

All was ready for the signature. While waiting for the men's entry
Cuthbert had said--

"I would rather you did not read this deed until you have signed it, Mr.
Brander. I know it is a most unbusiness-like thing for you to do, but I
think you may feel sure you can trust me."

"I have no intention of reading it," the lawyer said. "Whatever the
conditions of that paper I am ready to comply with them."

After the signatures had been affixed, and the witnesses had retired,
Cuthbert said--

"Now, Mr. Brander, you are at liberty to read the deed. I think you will
find its provisions satisfactory."

Mr. Brander, with a slight shrug of his shoulders that signified that
he was indifferent as to the details of the arrangement, took the paper
and began to run his eyes carelessly through it. Suddenly his expression
changed. He gave a start of surprise, read a few lines farther, and then
exclaimed--

"Can this be true, are you really going to marry Mary?"

"It is quite true," Cuthbert said, quietly. "I first asked her a few
weeks before my father's death when I met her down at Newquay. She
refused me at that time, but we have both changed since then. I saw a
great deal of her in Paris and she worked as a nurse in the American
ambulance during the siege. I was one of her patients, having been shot
through the body and brought in there insensible. Having assisted in
saving my life she finally came to the conclusion that she could not do
better than make that life a happy one. She had refused me because she
considered, and rightly, that I was a useless member o