“No right,” he said, his voice faltering, “but by the memory of your mother I implore you, Hilary.” “I will think of it,” she said. “What! are you going?” “I distrust that fanatic Waghorn, he may stir up the soldiers once more,” he replied. Then, with an irrepressible sigh, “’Tis like enough, Hilary, that you and I may never meet again; will you not give me that one word of comfort?” The sudden stab of pain at the thought that this might indeed be their last meeting, broke down her pride. “Well--I promise,” she said, gently. Then, as he bent down and kissed her hand, the familiar notes of “In trouble and adversity,” fell upon her ear. “Do you hear what they are singing?” she cried. “’Tis our psalm that we sang years ago in the Cathedral, that day when----” she broke off in confusion. “You still remember?” he said, tenderly, his eyes full of happiness as they met hers. At that moment, to his bitter regret, they heard steps on the path, and looking up, saw a burly sergeant approaching. Gabriel went to give him his orders, then returned to the porch. “We must march as soon as they have ended the psalm,” he said, stooping once more to press a passionate kiss on her hand. “I am glad you remember that day, Hilary. Remember always! Remember always!” She heard his voice tremble, yet could not speak; she watched him walk rapidly down the path to the lych-gate, and then as the hearty voices of the soldiers and the villagers rose in the final verse, she sank down on one of the benches in the porch, and, hiding her face in her hands, burst into tears. About three o’clock that afternoon Norton, waking from an after-dinner nap, sauntered out into one of the corridors at Canon Frome Manor. “There is a carpenter-fellow, sir, at work in the house, and he bade me give this into your hands,” said his servant, approaching him. Norton carelessly broke the seal and glanced at the laboriously-written lines. A smile began to flicker about his lips, and with some curiosity he made his way to the ante-room which led to Dame Elizabeth’s apartments. Here he found Waghorn busily engaged in mending a spinning-wheel. “Good-day, Colonel,” said the fanatic, gloomily. “Hath my missive been delivered?” “So this is from you!” said Norton, with a sarcastic smile. “You are the fellow I met once at Bosbury. Have you thought better of it, and are you going to change sides?” “Nay, nay, I trow not,” replied Waghorn, his eyes gleaming. “But I would fain be used as the instrument of vengeance on the ungodly, even though for the time I do serve thee and thy cause.” Norton gave one of his short scoffing laughs. “I faith I scarce know if I could be served by one of such a vinegar aspect!” “Dost thou love Mistress Hilary Unett?” asked the wood-carver, sternly. The Colonel started. “What is that to you, scarecrow?”