and Clare as they stood at the gate together, he and Clare with clasped hands.

"I'm going to work hard, Mrs. Martyn, and to try and have a nice little house like this for Clare some day. No one will make any dfference. She's the only girl I'll ever marry." And he, too, strode off, making a brave show. So the heart-breaking process had already begun, as Mrs. Martyn afterwards related to Margaret Drew.

Three years passed away, and the two boys came home again, Harry to make only a brief stay as he was going into the army, and must egin at Sandhurst soon. But Roger was not very strong, and Sir Joseph thought an open air life best for him, so he was to go to the agricultural college about four miles distant, and would come home at frequent intervals. Both boys had developed into tall, good-looking youths, and Margaret declared that her favourite Harry would be as handsome as his father some day. He was charming in manner; gay, unselfish, and chivalrously fond of his cousin Roger, who, he said, was too good for this world. And Roger, in his turn, fairly adored his more robust, stronger cousin, and was never tired of sounding his praises. No one was like him at school. He was first in everything, best at cricket and football, rowed a strong oar, and steered a straight course in whatsoever he undertook.

The two months that followed their arrival were very happy. It seemed as if childhood had been prolonged to enable them to enjoy all their former innocent pursuits, and no one noticed how quickly the time passed, nor how these young people gradually developed and matured into responsible beings whose life lay before them, to make of it what they would. Only Margaret Drew saw that Roger required care, and that his frail appearance seemed accentuated when brought into comparison with Harry's robust physique.

Clare had sprung up like a reed, erect and slim, pleasing to look at and likely to turn many heads. She showed her little birds to Harry one day with al the pride that attends successful care, and laughingly said that she thought Vixie had grown too fond of her to return to his master.

"Small wonder at that," said Harry. "I commend your

stewardship, but I hope you have not forgotten my chief injunction?" Then, to spare her quick blushes, he added: "Well, I won't tease you now about it, but remember, that's not the last word on the subject."

IV.

In due time Harry joined his regiment, and so lost actual touch with all these scenes of his boyhood, and passed from out the family circle at the cottage. His name was frequently on their lips, and his letters to Clare were eagerly looked for; but letters are poor substitutes for more familiar intercourse, and very often lack that touch of personality which makes the charm of such intercourse. In truth, Harry was but a poor letterwriter, and few on reading his productions could divine the strong, determined character which was so evident in every feature of his face and whole bearing. Clare thought of him as of a very dear brother of whom she was extremely proud, yet somewhat afraid; for tender as he was towards her, she nevertheless instinctively felt him to be a man of strong purpose and determination. She was more at home with Roger, and it was not very long before her mother and Margaret Drew began to exchange knowing glances and nod their heads significantly in anticipation of what was coming. Even Sir Joseph was not aken by surprise when Roger one day informed him that Clare had promised to become his wife, and asked his consent to their marriage.

Sir Joseph dearly loved the girl whom he had known from infancy, and if he was secretly a little disappointed at the turn things had taken, he kept his own counsel, and bore a smiling face towards the young couple, but advised a little delay until Roger was more in a position to set up that little home to which he was so fond of alluding.

Margaret Drew was also not quite satisfied. "I don't want to see that dear child in widow's weeds," she would say to herself. "And I wonder how poor Harry will take it?”

Harry was expected home on short leave during the following week, so no one thought it necessary to write, or perhaps everyone shrank from undertaking such a task. He was not due till late in the evening, and when he arrived earlier in the day he

found his father absent and not likely to be home for some time, so he set out cheerfully through the well-known fields and jumped the low wall opposite the cottage in great spirits.

The roses climbed over the sunny porch, framing a picture that brought a cold chill to his heart, and held him motionless. Roger was bending down to give his parting kiss, saying: "I shall hurry away, sweetheart, for I must drive to the station to meet Harry, and be the first to tell him our good news. How pleased he will be !"

Then these two, who had been so happy but a moment before, caught sight of Harry's white face and troubled eyes, and in that one glance they knew all. Strangely enough, Harry was the first to recover himself, and true gent eman as he was, he held out a hand to each in loving greeting. The nervous tension swiftly passed, and Clare's young brothers caused a diversion by racing out in noisy merriment to capture their big friend and drag him off to their own special haunts. Nevertheless, it was with great relief that Harry saw Margaret Drew walking up the avenue some time later and went to meet her.

Perhaps no one in the world understood Harry so well as old Margaret, and though years had passed since his childhood, she now adopted the old method of enticing him away from painful scenes, that she might administer consolation to his lonely heart.

"My dear boy, I am just in time, and my patience will positively not keep till to-morrow morning. You must come up with me now, and see my new greenhouse. I have been so anxious to have it finished before you came. And think of all the years I have been saving up my threepenny bits to build it! Come along at once. I came down for Clare, but now everyone else must wait till to-morrow."

Clare and Roger laughingly made a pretence of accompanying them, but Margaret insisted on carrying off her favourite alone. She leaned on Harry's arm going up the hill, but once in doors she took his two hands in hers, and kissed him. I am afraid the greenhouse was almost forgotten, for Harry knew that she had read his heart and that it was useless to attempt to deceive her. And indeed he had no wish to do so, for Mar. garet had known all his secrets from a boy. He derived fresh

strength from her loving sympathy, and a few words from her filled him with new courage to face the inevitable.

That night, taking one last turn upon the lawn before going to bed, he placed his hand on Roger's shoulder, saying: “I need not wish you happiness, old fellow, for you are sure to have it. Take care of her, and take care of yourself, too. I don't like that cough of yours. Come inside at once."

When they stood under the hall lamp, Roger looked at Harry so keenly that he responded as if to the question in his eyes.

Hang it, man! Don't look at me like that. Can't I wish you joy, and feel it, too? Do you think I'm such a churlish dog as to grudge you your happiness?"

Next day Margaret had two visitors. The first was Harry, and it seemed that he did not come to speak of himself. "Aunt Margaret, I don't like that cough of Roger's. How long has he had it ? "

"I think he has always had it, dear boy."

"Oh, but he must see a doctor. I shall speak to my father about it."

The second visitor was Roger.

"Aunt Margaret," he said, "do you think I have done Harry a wrong? Have I stolen a march on him? You know what I mean. And yet, if Clare had loved him, she would not have accepted me. Still, I cannot bear to think that he should suppose I took an unfair advantage of him."

"He does not think so, Roger. No one, knowing you, could think such a thing. Harry's affection for you is unchanged, and he will find his own happiness some day."

Sir Joseph Arton was indeed very uneasy about Roger's health, and according to the doctor's advice sent him away to a warm climate for the winter.

In the following spring, however, Roger begged to come home, saying he felt much better, and that all he now needed was to be with his old friends. So one April day he came back, looking bright and cheerful, making light of the tedious cough that still clung to him. But May is a treacherous month, and that particular May swept over the land in blighting sleet and heavy rain. The early buds of spring in garden and orchard were nipped and shrivelled, and the birds were silent in their nests,

striving with outstretched wings to shield their young from cold. Roger was obliged to keep indoors, and ere the month was half over, he could not leave his bed.

I need scarcely dwell on that harrowing time, when hope grew less day by day. Margaret Drew came and went, like the ministering angel that she was, breathing words of love and consolation, thinking of everyone, doing all things needful, and all in her quiet, unassuming way, as if only obeying the suggestions of others. Shortly before the end, she came out of Roger's room, one evening, weeping bitterly. He had asked to see her alone, but not for many years did she refer to the subject of their interview.

Harry came to clasp his friend's hand once more, and to stand beside his grave on Kilbeg hill, sad and lonely for the comrade in whom every dear association of childhood and youth was bound up. He stayed but a few days at home, for his regiment was ordered off on active service, and with a heavy heart he was obliged to bid farewell to his old father, knowing not what the chances of war might bring, or whether he might ever see his face again.

V.

Five years bring many changes. Sir Joseph Arton in that time had become an old man, stooped and slow of gait. Anxiety for his only son might account for this, for Harry had not passed through the war unscathed. There had been one dreadful day when his name had appeared among the wounded, and not only the manor house, but the whole village was in a state of commotion. It seemed a century of time until they learned that all danger was over, and then the days dragged slowly on before the war ended, and Sir Joseph might look once more for the return of his gallant son.

In the cottage things were quieter than before. The five lusty boys had gone out into the world to take their chance of good or ill fortune, and Mrs. Martyn had grown many grey hairs in solicitude and anxiety. Clare had bloomed into full womanhood, matured by sorrow and frustrated hopes. Her face had grown beautiful in its calm dignity, and bore the stamp of a soul purified and strengthened by the patient and submissive