for a few moments, in a bewildered fashion; then, presently, sat down on a bank, and let his head drop into his hands.

“Oh—it’s horrible!” he groaned. “Here’s a woman—one of the best in the world, I’ll be sworn—holding my hands, and kissing my lying lips, and swearing that she loves me, and will make a new man of me; and the man she loves lies at the bottom of the river. I thought this was to be a mere question of money; a matter of ‘the king is dead—long live the king!’ but when it comes to lying steadily to a woman, it’s another business altogether. Yet, what am I to do?” He sat up, and stared hopelessly before him. “If I tell her that her lover is dead, I break her heart, and endanger my own neck; on the other hand, to keep up this mad game requires more subtlety than I possess, and the Devil’s own cheek. What a mighty uncomfortable pair of shoes I’ve stepped into!”

He heard a sudden rustling among the leaves near at hand, and the next moment a girlish figure sprang out, and confronted him. Raising his head slowly, from the ground upwards, he saw, first of all, a very trim little pair of shoes—a gay little Sunday frock—a remarkably neat waist—and so up to a mischievous face, shaded by a wide hat; and in that face were set the pair of black eyes which had looked at him in so audacious a manner in church, and which were regarding him roguishly enough now.

“Mr. Dandy Chater”—the voice of this girl of about eighteen was imperious, and she was evidently not a person to be trifled with—“I want to know what you mean by it?”

The situation was becoming something more than merely humorous. Philip Chater pushed back his hat, and gazed at her in perplexity; and, indeed, it must be admitted that, to be accosted in this fashion by a young lady, of whose name he was entirely ignorant, was enough to try the stoutest nerves. However, remembering all that was at stake, and seeing in this girl one of a very different stamp to the woman from whom he had just parted, he asked, with what carelessness he might—

“And what’s the matter with you?”

The girl stamped her foot, and began to twist the lace scarf she wore petulantly in her hands. “As if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I’ve watched you, since you walked out of church—and I know why you went there—for the first time since you were christened, I should think. Surely, you remember all you said to me last week—when”—the little hands were very busy with the lace scarf at this point—“when you kissed me.”

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