udden gleam of light seemed to break in
upon him.

"Are you sorry?" he asked half-unwittingly.

For answer the girl turned her tragic eyes upon him, tried to speak, and
faltered. He cursed him-self for a fool and a brute, and whipped up an
already over-active horse, till it was all but unmanageable. It was a
wise move, for it absorbed his attention and gave the poor child at his
side a chance to recover her composure.

They came to Glenavelin gates and George turned in. "I had better drive
you to the door, in this charming weather," he said. The sight of the
pale little face had moved him to deep pity. He cursed his blindness,
the blindness of a whole world of fools, and at the same time, with the
impotence of the honest man, he could only wait and be silent.

At the door he stopped to unbutton his cape from her neck, and even in
his nervousness he felt the trembling of her body. She spoke rapidly
and painfully.

"I want you to take a message from me to--to--Lewis. Tell him I must
see him. Tell him to come to the Midburn foot, to-morrow in the
afternoon. Oh, I am ashamed to ask you, but you must tell him." And
then without thanks or good-bye she fled into the house.

CHAPTER XIX

THE BRIDGE OF BROKEN HEARTS

Listless leaves were tossing in the light wind or borne downward in the
swirl of the flooded Midburn, to the weary shallows where they lay,
beached high and sodden, till the frost nipped and shrivelled their
rottenness into dust. A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine,
searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek. A light snow
powdered the earth, the grey forerunner of storms.

Alice stood back in the shelter of the broken parapet. The highway with
its modern crossing-place was some hundreds of yards up stream, but
here, at the burn mouth, where the turbid current joined with the cold,
glittering Avelin, there was a grass-grown track, and an ancient,
broken-backed bridge. There were few passers on the high-road, none on
this deserted way; but the girl in all her loneliness shrank back into
the shadow. In these minutes she endured the bitter mistrust, the sore
hesitancy, of awaiting on a certain but unknown grief.

She had not long to wait, for Lewis came down the Avelin side by a
bypath from Etterick village. His alert gait covered his very real
confusion, but to the girl he seemed one who belonged to an alien world
of cheerfulness. He could not know her grief, and she regretted