BETWEEN Killalochie and Halko’s Head the road was of the loneliest. On his morning journey Eustace Thorburn had encountered about three people, sturdy mountaineers, who gave him friendly greeting as they passed him. For the first few miles of his return he met no one; and when he seated himself to rest on a rough block of stone near the junction of two roads, the wide expanse of land and sea which the spot commanded was as solitary as if he had been the first man, and the world newly-created for his habitation. It is not to be supposed that even on this day every thought of Helen de Bergerac had been banished from the wanderer’s mind. He had too long and too habitually indulged himself with tender memories of the pleasant hours they had spent together. Thoughts of her were interwoven with all other thoughts and all other memories. Upon that lonely road he had found ample leisure for meditation; and now, as he sat alone amidst the solitary grandeur of that mountain district, it was of Helen and of the future he thought. Nor were his meditations hopeful. Alone, nameless, his task well-nigh finished for the one kindly patron whom fortune had sent him, with nothing but a manuscript poem and a publisher’s half-promise between him and poverty, was he a fitting suitor for Theodore de Bergerac’s only daughter? By what right could he demand her father’s confidence? What promise could he make? what hopes advance? None. To sum up his best claim, his brightest aspiration, would be only to say, “Sometimes, when the demon of self-doubt ceases for the moment to torment me, I believe I am a poet. Of my chances of winning the world to believe as much, I know nothing. Assured income in the present or expectation in the future, I have none.” He considered his position with a gloomy hopelessness that was almost despair. What could he do but despair? He knew that his patron liked him; nay, indeed, had honoured him with a warm regard; but would that regard stand him in good stead should he presume to offer himself as a husband for his patron’s only daughter? Mr. Jerningham’s influence would, he knew, be exercised against him, since, for some mysterious reason, that gentleman had chosen to regard him with a malignant eye. And he knew that Mr. Jerningham’s counsel would not be disregarded by his old friend. “No; there is no ray of hope on the dark horizon of my life,” thought the young man. “Better for me that I should never see Helen again.” The sound of carriage-wheels startled him from his reverie. He looked up, and saw a landau and pair approaching him by the cross-road. The apparition of such an equipage in that rugged district surprised him. He stood up and looked at the advancing carriage, and in the same moment recognized its occupants. They were M. de Bergerac, his daughter, and Mr. Jerningham. The Frenchman was quick to recognize his secretary.