"Wouldn't come. He's going as chief scout to an expedition just about to be sent against the hostiles. I made him promise, though, to come over directly after the war." But the acme of this marvellous and stirring life's romance was reached when later--after the ladies had retired to bed--Rupert Vallance recounted, in strict confidence, the circumstances of his meeting in the Sioux camp, the unfortunate woman who had ruined his career hitherto by allowing him to suffer for another's intrigue. "By Jove!" said George Santorex, junior. "I've heard of that party. Always supposed, though, she was a common sort of woman. A lady! and prefers to live among a lot of dirty redskins! Why, the tallest yarn of old Mayne Reid's is skim-milk to this. But I guess she pretty well wiped out old scores by chousing the reds out of your scalp in that clever way, eh, Rupert!" He nodded. "That's so." Just then there was an interruption. A messenger had arrived from Lant Hall. The Rev. Dudley was not expected to live through the night, and particularly wished to see Mr Santorex. "Phew-w!" whistled the latter. "I suppose I must go. What on earth can he want to talk to me about? Perhaps it's about you, Rupert." "Maybe it is," replied the latter, puffing out a cloud of smoke with as complete nonchalance as though they were discussing the weather. And George Santorex, junior, furtively watching the unconcerned, relentless face, thought he could well understand the reputation which this man had set up in those Western wilds which had been for so many years their common home. CHAPTER FORTY. CONCLUSION. Summer has come round once more, and again, amid all the glories of a cloudless evening, we stand beside the banks of the rippling Lant-- howbeit not without misgiving, for are we not about to enact the part of eavesdroppers towards those two strolling languidly, contentedly, there by the shining water? "It strikes me, child, you seem inclined to find life rather a happy thing," a voice well-known to us is saying. "And you've no business to." A loving pressure of the strong arm on which she is leaning is the only answer Yseulte deigns at first to make. Then: "Why not?" "Because you've done a very wrong thing. If the late lamented Dudley were alive, he would tell you that a man may not marry his grandmother, and by parity of reasoning a woman may not marry her grandfather. Now this is just what you have done, and it's very wrong of you." She gave his arm a pinch. "I never liked--boys!" she replied with a sunny smile. And then she sighed. For it was on this very spot, beneath this same spreading oak here on the river-bank, that poor Geoffry had made his passionate and despairing declaration barely a year ago. And now at the thought of the poor fellow and his miserable end far away in that savage land, she could not repress a sigh.