“To the village. I shall be back soon, Douglas.” Then, turning to his cousin, he said, “Drive fast, Vane.” With a puzzled brow Sir Douglas watched them disappear--he could not understand Stuart’s apparent attachment to this selfish, worldly girl--then, with a sigh, turned wearily indoors. The next day was that fixed for his lawyer to come down from London, and he had much to occupy his thoughts. He sought the squire’s room, and, in a chat over bygone years, lost for a while his anxious, restless expression. Stuart sat silent beside his cousin as they bowled along the lane to the village; and Vane glanced now and again at his pale, pained face, wondering, when he knew the truth, what his opinion would be of her. The village reached, he broke the silence by asking Vane to drive straight to the little cottage by the Weald; and, without a word, she complied. She drew up the ponies on the brow of the hill; and Stuart, heedless of his aching arm and weakness, alighted, and walked down to the gate he knew so well. It was just such an afternoon as that on which he had parted from Margery, and the memory of her beauty and sweetness lent strength to his faltering steps and fed the eagerness and desire in his heart. He pushed open the gate and entered. The window-blinds were drawn; the door--pushed with his one able hand--defied every effort. He grew faint and cold, and leaned against the doorpost for a moment, while the roses, nodding in the breeze, seemed to whisper to him a sense of his loss in all its bitterness. Margery was gone! But why--and whither? He turned and walked down the garden, his head drooping dejectedly on his breast. Margery gone! What could it mean? Why had she left him, without a word or sign, in the very moment of their joy and happiness? The truth did not come to him even then. There must be some mistake, he tried to convince himself. A hundred different answers to the strange question came to him. He closed the gate behind him and turned away. There was a man standing at the gate of the next cottage, and at first Stuart determined to pass him; but a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped and spoke with forced lightness. “Ah, Carter--lovely weather for the crops! Is this true that I hear about Morris?” “Good-arternoon, squire. Hope I see you better. It were a stiffish fall as you had. Morris, sir? What? That he’s gone to Australia? Ay, sir--that’s true enough.” Stuart’s left hand grasped the gate. “Rather sudden, isn’t it?” he questioned, trying to clear his voice. “Well, sir, it were rather; but, you see, the death of his missus fair knocked him over, and he made up his mind in a minute.” “And he has gone alone?” asked Stuart, every nerve in his body quivering.