The two knelt down by the roadside, and in the silence of the evening they asked fervently for God's blessing on their union. When night came, they found themselves in the inn across the border where Douglas had parted from his companions, and then he remembered the letter which the servant had given him at "Highlands" just before he parted from the family. He had read only a few lines when he started and changed colour. "What is it, Douglas?" asked the girl. "It is all right," he said, but his voice was hoarse and troubled. The following morning Douglas Graham parted from his newly-made wife at a railway station some distance from the inn. "You are sure you must go?" she asked, and her voice was trembling. "I simply must, Jean!" he replied. "But do not be afraid. I will be back in a few days. You can tell your father everything. In a month from now you shall be publicly proclaimed as my wife." "I don't like letting you go!" sobbed the girl. "I would give anything if I could stay, but I simply dare not--my whole future depends upon my going!" The train swept into the station. "Good-bye, Douglas, my husband!" she said. "You'll soon be back?" "Good-bye, Jean, my wife! May God bless you! Yes, I'll soon be back." CHAPTER I A LEGACY OF HATE Their meeting-place was on the Altarnun Moors, eight miles from the town of Bodmin, perhaps as many from the rugged peaks--the highest peaks in Cornwall--Router and Brown Willy. Almost as far as the eye could reach was bare moorland. A white streak, the road which ran between Altarnun and Bodmin, was the most striking thing seen. On either side of the road were only bare, uncultivated, uninteresting moors; and yet, perhaps, I do the district injustice. Here and there was a rugged tor, and again a few fields taken in from the moorland by some enterprising labourer who wanted to earn a living by farming. Near this road, too, is the famous Dozmary Pool, known to all those who love folk-lore and are acquainted with the legends of the most Western county in England--a dismal piece of water, black as ink, and, so the old stories have it, bottomless. It was here that Tregellas, of Cornish myth, was set by the Devil to scoop out its water by means of a limpet-shell. Here, too, in old times, coaches were robbed and dark deeds done. At the time of which I am writing, however, it was simply one of the most unattractive and bleak districts in what is otherwise perhaps the most beautiful county in England. The woman had walked all the way from Launceston, a distance of not less than a dozen miles. The youth had come from Bodmin, and he had covered nearly the same length of road. The afternoon was drawing to a close as they met. It was a November day, and darkness would be upon them by five o'clock. No one was near, for since the days of stage-coaches the traffic on this road has been small. Occasionally a farmer's cart passes along,