John’s heart seemed to contract within him, and then beat fast with a sensation that was not entirely pity, because those eyes—­the bluest, he remembered, that he had ever seen—­brought back to him, suddenly and vividly, the memory of the exquisitely fresh and lovely girl who had married her elderly guardian nineteen years since.

He recollected that some members of the Crewys family had agreed that Lady Mary Setoun had done well for herself, “a penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree;” for Sir Timothy was rich.  Others had laughed, and said that Sir Timothy was determined that his heirs should be able to boast some of the bluest blood in Scotland on their mother’s side,—­but that he might have waited a little longer for his bride.

She was so young, barely seventeen years old, and so very lovely, that John Crewys had felt indignant with Sir Timothy, whose appearance and manner did not attract him.  He was reminded that the bride owed almost everything she possessed in the world to her husband, but he was not pacified.

The glance of the gay blue eyes,—­the laugh on the curved young mouth,—­the glint of gold on the sunny brown hair,—­had played havoc with John’s honest heart.  He had not a penny in the world at that time, and could not have married her if he would; but from Lady Mary’s wedding he carried away in his breast an image—­an ideal—­which had perhaps helped to keep him unwed during these later years of his successful career.

Why did she look so sad?

John’s kind heart had melted somewhat towards Sir Timothy, when the poor gentleman had sought him in his chambers on the previous day, and appealed to him for help in his extremity.  He was sorry for his cousin, in spite of the pompousness and arrogance with which Sir Timothy unconsciously did his best to alienate even those whom he most desired to attract.

He had come to Devonshire, at great inconvenience to himself, in response to that appeal; and in his hurry, and his sympathy for his cousin’s trouble, he had scarcely given a thought to the momentary romance connected with his first and only meeting with Lady Mary.  Yet now, behold, after nineteen years, the look on her sweet face thrilled his middle-aged bosom as it had thrilled his young manhood.  John smiled or thought he smiled, as he came forward to be presented once more to Sir Timothy’s wife; but he was, nevertheless, rather pleased to find that he had not outgrown the power of being thus romantically attracted.

“I hope I’m not late,” said the soft voice.  “You see, no one expected Sir Timothy to come home so soon, and I was out.  Is that Cousin John?  We met once before, at my wedding.  You have not changed a bit; I remember you quite well,” said Lady Mary.  She came forward and held out two welcoming hands to her visitor.

John Crewys bowed over those little white hands, and became suddenly conscious that his vague, romantic sentiment had given place to a very real emotion—­an almost passionate anxiety to shield one so fair and gentle from the trouble which was threatening her, and of which, as he knew, she was perfectly unconscious.