“You’ll never do that,” said the old man sternly, as he bent lower over his stick. He heard the door close and he knew that Clement had gone—gone on wings, gone on feet lighter than thistle-down, gone, young and strong, his pulses leaping, to his love. The Squire was too old for tears, but his lip trembled. It was not alone the sacrifice that he had made that moved him—the sacrifice of his pride, his prejudices, his traditions. It was not only the immolation of his own will, his hopes and plans—his cherished plans for her. But he was giving her up. He was resigning that of which he had only just learned the worth, that on which in his blindness he depended every hour, that which made up all of youth and brightness and cheerfulness that was left to him between this and the end. He had sent the man to her, and they would think no more of him. And in doing this he had belied every belief in which he had been brought up and the faith which he had inherited from an earlier day—and maybe he had been a fool! But by and by it appeared that they had not forgotten him, or one, at any rate, had not. He had not been alone five minutes before the door opened behind him, and closed again, and he felt Josina’s arms round his neck, her head on his breast. “Oh, father, I know, I know,” she cried. “I know what you have done for me! And I shall never forget it—never! And he is good. Oh, father, indeed, indeed, he is good!” “There, there,” he said, stroking her head. “Go back to him. But, mind you,” hurriedly, “I don’t promise anything yet. In a year, maybe, I’ll talk about it.” THE END