There was something familiar about his appearance, yet for a few minutes she was puzzled. Where had she seen before the straight figure in the smart knickerbocker suit,--a figure so straight and so lean that in a girl it would be called "willowy." Ah, she knew now. The pale face, too pale for a habitual bicyclist, gave her the needed suggestion. "Young man, your way lies there," she said, pointing to the road when he dismounted and approached her, cap in hand. "Not for a minute, if you please," he said, taking a small piece of paper from his pocket. She refused to touch it, until he said, impatiently, "It's a message from your brother. He's dying, and I haven't time to make hay." She took it at this, but returned it immediately. "Have I eyes like microscopes that I can read these scraggy lines? Why didn't he send me a proper letter?" "It's for your sake it's small," replied the young man, with a covert sneer, "I might have had to make my supper off it, if I'd been overhauled." A sickening dread came over Miss Gastonguay, and she averted her head with an imperious, "Read it to me." He ran glibly over the words, "'My dear Jane--if I may call you so, but my mind is not on small matters.--I have come to the end of my rope. Let me say what I have to say and be done. I have about four weeks to live, possibly three,--it does not matter. In view of this, let the dead past bury itself. I want to see you, but especially my girl. I cannot die without it, yet the hounds are on my track. I have been dragging myself from place to place, but the chase will be over after I see you both. This is my only desire,--to see you, then to bestow myself in some safe place.'" Miss Gastonguay interrupted the reading, "What does he mean by a safe place?" "I don't know,--that river, I dare say." "Go on," she said, sternly. "'I must come soon or I cannot come at all. Everything is misty and faded but bygone days and the necessity of keeping out of sight. I am tired like a child. If I don't come soon I shall have no strength to leave you, but I shall not disgrace you, don't be afraid. You will agree--you must. Keep at home for a few days. Be surprised at nothing, but don't have too much communication with J. M. He is watched. Yours wearily, L.'" "Tear it up," said Miss Gastonguay. The young criminal tore the paper into fifty pieces, and scattering half on the ground put the rest into his pocket. "Can he come?" he asked. "Yes; where is he now?" "Not far away." "He is still your hero?" "Well, he's having a pretty tough time of it now," said the young man, thoughtfully. "What's the matter with him?" "Consumption,--a churchyard cough; it nearly chokes him." "Will you come with him?" "It depends on his disguise." Miss Gastonguay steadied herself against one of the gates, and put her hand against her side. When this disgraceful thing was over, would her heart be at rest?