"Tom Morrison tried to carry him on here, but he could not get him through the snow, so he came for help, and--heaven be thanked, here they are!" The room seemed to swim round Sage as she heard the sound of voices above the roaring of the wind, and going with her aunt and the two affrighted servants to the door, they stood their ground in spite of the beating and driving snow, till a stiffened white figure was borne into the great parlour and laid before the fire, the Churchwarden giving orders in all directions. "We could never get Vinnicombe across to-night, so we must bring him round ourselves. Quick, every one. Hot blankets, and let's get these snowy things away. Why in God's name don't some one shut that door?" he roared, as the wind and snow followed them into the room, making the fire roar furiously and the sparks stream up. "Don't be downhearted," cried the Churchwarden, setting the example, as John Berry came in to see what was the matter. "Hey, and what is it?" he said, laying his hand upon the wheelwright's arm. "Mr Cyril Mallow, Master Berry; we found him in the snow." It was just as Sage's heart gave a great bound of relief, for as the mist cleared from her eyes and the giddiness passed away, she found herself kneeling beside her husband's brother, frozen stiff where he had been waiting for hours at the trysting-place. And as Sage gazed with a strange feeling of awe at the stern white features set in death, the Churchwarden said softly, "Nay, Morrison, thou'rt wrong, my lad; it is Mr Frank. He must have been coming here." PART TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN. LOVERS' WORDS. Time flies. Not an original remark this, but perfectly true. Decorous mourning had been worn for Frank Mallow, the invalid mother had grown more grey, and the lines in her forehead deeper, while as the Rector thought of the fate of his firstborn, and shut his ears to little bits of scandal that floated about, he sighed, and turned more and more to his daughters, for Cyril, fortunately for himself, had quite forsaken Lawford since his brother's death, having troubles of his own to contend with, while his wife had hers. Rue Berry's adventure remained a secret between the sisters, and though at the weekly-meetings at the King's Head there were a good many nods and shakes of the head as to the reason why, on the night of his death, Frank Mallow had engaged a fly and pair of horses, such matter was never openly discussed, Tomlinson sagely remarking that when a man died there was a thick black mark ruled across the page of his ledger, and it was not worth while to tot up an account that there was no one to pay. Then, as time went on, the inquest was forgotten, and the tablet placed in the church by the Rector, sacred to the memory of Frank, the beloved son, etcetera, etcetera, only excited notice during one weekly meeting, when Fullerton wondered what had become of the fortune Frank Mallow had made in Australia.