A little while thereafter Coquette was on her way back to the Manse alone.  She had promised to go down to Saltcoats that night, and had sealed her sin with a kiss.

It was a wild, strange night that she stole out of the house, leaving behind her all the sweet consciousness of rectitude and the purity and innocence which had enabled her to meet trials with a courageous heart—­leaving behind the crown of womanhood, the treasure of a stainless name.  Every moment the storm grew in intensity, till the rain-clouds were blown upon the land in hissing torrents.  At last, just as she saw before her the lights of Saltcoats, she sank down by the roadside with a faint cry of “Uncle!  Uncle!”

When she came to herself, in a neighbour’s house, a letter was given her from Lord Earlshope, saying that he could not exact from her the sacrifice he had proposed, and incur for both the penalty of remorse and misery; so he would leave for America alone.

Even as she was reading the letter, the report reached Saltcoats that the yacht had gone down in the storm, and Lord Earlshope was beyond the reach of accusation and defence.

She married the Whaup, but was never again the old Coquette, and though Tom tried hopefully to charm her back to cheerfulness, she faded month by month.  It was not till the end was drawing near that she was told of the death of Lord Earlshope, and her last journey was to Saltcoats to see the wild waste of waters that were his grave.

There came a night when she beckoned her husband to her and asked him in a scarcely audible voice:  “Tom, am I going to die?” And when in answer he could only look at her sad eyes, she said:  “I am not sorry.  It will be better for you and everyone; and you will not blame me because I could not make your life more happy for you—­it was all a misfortune, my coming to this country.”

“Coquette, Coquette,” he said, beside himself with grief, “if you are going to die, I will go with you, too—­see, I will hold your hand, and when the gates are open, I will not let you go—­I will go with you, Coquette.”

Scarce half an hour afterwards the gates opened, and she silently passed through, while a low cry broke from his lips:  “So near—­so near!  And I cannot go with her, too!”

* * * * *

R. D. BLACKMORE

Lorna Doone

Richard Doddridge Blackmore, one of the most famous English novelists of the last generation, was born on June 9, 1825, at Longworth, Berkshire, of which parish his father was vicar.  Like John Ridd, the hero of “Lorna Doone,” he was educated at Blundell’s School, Tiverton.  An early marriage with a beautiful Portuguese girl, and a long illness, forced him to live for some years in hard and narrow circumstances.  Happily, in 1860, he came, unexpectedly, into a considerable fortune.  Settling down at Teddington, he divided his life between the delights