"With your good leave I will repose here," replied the stranger, seating himself on the bench under the great pear-tree. "This soft autumn air is grateful to my senses, and I am somewhat weary with my walk. And so you did know me, Winifred, after all?" he added, as soon as Gilbert Evans was out of hearing. "I don't think I should have done so, if I had not known you were coming," answered Winifred, surveying him from head to foot. "No, I am sure I should not. The wig seems to alter the shape of your face entirely." "So much the better! Now, Winifred, that we are alone, I wish to say a few serious words to you. You have saved my life and the credit of my family. Whether we shall ever meet again, God only knows, but I shall never forget you, and you must always remember me. Will you promise to do so?" Winifred tried to keep back her tears, as she said she should never forget Mr. Arthur as long as she lived. "I am but a wanderer—a hunted exile, without home or country," resumed Arthur, "and you are hardly more than a child even now. But if ever I return, I shall come to find you. I must not even write to you, since it would not be safe for either, but I shall think of you, and meantime I want you to wear this." He took from his breast a beautiful little locket and chain, decorated with a crest and figures in black and green enamel. "This locket contains my mother's and sister's hair, and in all my wanderings I have never parted with it. Put it round your neck under your kerchief—so. Now, have you nothing to give me in exchange—no little silver penny or sixpence?" "I have only this," said Winifred, taking from her pocket the broad, thin Moorish gold coin which Colonel Kirke had given her. "That will do, nicely. Now farewell, my own Winifred! Be as much as may be with my sister, and learn all you can of her and of good Alwright. Give them my last love. Pray for me, sweetheart! You and the good dame, between you, taught me that the Christian religion is a reality. There, I hear your good grandfather coming." Winifred stood feeling like one in a dream, while Roger led out the black mare from the stable. The stranger looked her over, and seemed to talk about the price, while the saddle was put on her and the stirrups adjusted. At last all was settled, the stranger mounted, bowed politely to her grandfather, put something into old Roger's hand, and rode away, turning at the last point where he could see Winifred and raising his hat. Then she drew a long breath and went back to her work, wondering how it was that all the interest seemed to have gone out of it, and that she could think of nothing but the last glimpse of Arthur Carew.