“Psha! my friend. What does it matter in the general scheme of things if one woman dies waiting to marry the one man on whom she has set her heart? My dear Dick, what is life more than waiting--a constant waiting that is never repaid? Is any man, any woman, ever satisfied? No matter what it is that we get, do we not resume our waiting for something else--something that we think worth waiting for? Psha! I am beginning to preach; and whatever women do they should not preach. Good-bye, Dick. Why, we are almost left alone.” “My poor Agnes--my poor Agnes!” said he, looking at her with tenderness in his eyes. “Never think for a moment that he will not return. Eight years is a long time for him to be lost, but he will return. Oh, never doubt that he will return.” “I have never yet doubted the goodness of God,” said she. “I will wait. I will accept without a murmur my life of waiting. He will not mind my grey hairs.” She gave a laugh--after a little pause. In her laugh there was a curious note that sounded like a defiance of Fate. The man laughed also, but she saw that he knew very well that as a matter of fact there were several grey threads among the beautiful brown of her hair. That was all the conversation they had at that time. She went away with her brother Cyril, who had been trying to get Mr. Calmour to listen to his views regarding the bowling policy to be pursued at Saturday's match. Cyril had his own views regarding the slow bowling of young Sharp, the rector's son. It was supposed to be very baffling, and so it was on a bad wicket. But if the wicket was good--and there was every likelihood that the fine weather would last over Saturday--the batsmen would simply send every ball across the boundary, Cyril declared with great emphasis. He was in some measure put out when Mr. Calmour turned to him suddenly, saying: “I beg your pardon. What is it you've been talking about?” “What should I be talking about if not the bowling for Saturday?” cried Cyril. “Oh, the bowling. What bowling? Saturday--what is to happen on Saturday?” said the cashier. “You idiot! Haven't we been discussing”-- “Oh, go away--go away,” said Mr. Calmour wearily. “Heaven only knows what may happen between to-day and Saturday. If you could have any idea of what I've gone through to-day already--bless my soul! it all seems like a queer dream. Where are all the people gone? Why have they gone, can you tell me? I haven't paid away all my gold yet. I've still over two thousand pounds left. Have they closed the doors of the bank? They were fools--oh, such fools! But I could have held out. I had three or four tricks left. And now what's to become of me? I support my mother--she's an old woman; and I have a sister in another town--she is an epileptic. We are all ruined with the bank.”