“You give me, then, your word of honour as a gentleman that you will attempt, either in person or by letter, no communication with Angela or with anybody about this place for one year from to-day?”

“On the condition that, at the end of the year, I may return and marry her as soon as I like.”

“Certainly; your marriage can take place on the 9th of June next, if you like, and care to bring a license and a proper settlement—­say, of half your income—­with you,” answered Philip, with a half smile.

“I take you at your word,” said Arthur, eagerly, “that is, if Angela agrees.”  Angela made no signs of disagreement.  “Then, on those terms, I give you my promise.”

“Very good.  Then that is settled, and I will send for a dog-cart to take you to the four o’clock train.  I fear you will hardly be ready for the 12.25.  I shall, however, hope,” he added, “to have the pleasure of presenting this young lady to you for good and all on this day next year.  Good-bye for the present.  I shall see you before you go.”

It is painful to have to record that when Arthur got outside the door, and out of Angela’s hearing, he cursed Philip, in his grief and anger, for the space of some minutes.

To linger over those last hours could only be distressing to the sympathetic reader of this history, more especially if he, or she, has ever had the misfortune to pass through such a time in their own proper persons.  The day of any one’s departure is always wretched, but much more is it wretched, when the person departing is a lover, whose face will not be seen and of whom no postman will bear tidings for a whole long year.

Some comfort, however, these two took in looking forward to that joyous day when the year of probation should have been gathered to its predecessors, and in making the most minute arrangements for their wedding:  how Angela was to warn Mr. Fraser that his services would be required; where they should go to for their honeymoon, and even of what flowers the wedding bouquet, which Arthur was to bring down from town with him, should be composed.

And thus the hours passed away, all too quickly, and each of them strove to be merry, in order to keep up the spirits of the other.  But it is not in human nature to feel cheerful with a lump of ice upon the heart!  Dinner was even more dismal than breakfast, and Pigott, who had been informed of the impending misfortune, and who was distrustful of Philip’s motives, though she did not like to add to the general gloom by saying so, made, after the manner of half-educated people, a painful and infectious exhibition of her grief.

“Poor Aleck,” said Angela, when the time drew near, bending down over the dog to hide a tear, as she had once before bent down to hide a blush; “poor Aleck, I shall miss you almost as much as your master.”

“You will not miss him, Angela, because I am going to make you a present of him if you will keep him.”