went, to echo his heavy footsteps. He took the
road back toward the vicarage, turning neither to the right nor the
left, looking straight before him, and never once shifting his gaze. The
road might be long, but now it fretted him no more. The night might be
cold, but colder far was the heart within him. The moon might fly behind
the cloud floes, and her light burst forth afresh; but for him all was
blank night.

In the vicarage the slumberous fire was smoldering down. The
straggle-brained guest had been lighted to his bed, and the good parson
himself was carrying to his own tranquil closet a head full of the great
world's dust and noise. Greta was still sitting before the dying fire,
her heart heavy with an indefinable sensation of dread.

When Paul opened the door his face was very pale and his eyes had a
strange look; but he was calm, and spoke quietly. He told what had
occurred, and read aloud his mother's letter. The voice was strong in
which he read it, and never a tremor told of the agony his soul was
suffering. Then he sat some time without speaking, and time itself had
no reckoning.

Greta scarcely spoke, and the old parson said little. What power had
words to express a sorrow like this? Death had its solace; but there
was no comfort for death in life.

At last Paul told Parson Christian that he wished the marriage to take
place at once--- to-morrow, or, at latest, the day after that. He told
of their intention to leave England, of his father's friend, and, in
answer to questions, of the power of attorney drawn up in the name of
his brother.

The old man was deeply moved, but his was the most unselfish of souls.
He understood very little of all that was meant by what had been done,
and was still to do. But he said, "God bless you and go with you!"
though his own wounded heart was bleeding. Greta knelt at his chair, and
kissed the tawny old face lined and wrinkled and damp now with a furtive
tear. It was agreed that the marriage should take place on Friday. This
was Wednesday night.

Paul rose and stepped to the door, and Greta followed him to the porch.

"It is good of you to leave all to your brother," she said.

"We'll not speak of it," he answered.

"Is there not something between you?" she asked.

"Another time, darling."

Greta recalled Hugh Ritson's strange threat. Should she mention it to
Paul? She had almost done so, when she lifted her eyes to his face. The
weary, worn expression checked