In the solitude, she threw back her veil, leaned her head against the trunk of the tree where wan lichens made a pearly cushion, and shut her eyes.  The afternoon was wearing away; a keen wind shook the bare boughs; only the ceaseless, unchanging chant of waters rose from the vast throat of nature, invoking its God.

She heard no footsteps; but some strange current attacked her veins, thrilled along her nerves, strung as taut as the wires of a harp, and starting up she became aware that a man was standing on the clover sward close to her.  A dark brown overcoat, a broad brimmed, soft wool hat, drawn as a mask down to the bridge of the nose, and a bare hand covering the mouth, was all she saw.

Stretching out her arms, she sprang to meet him: 

“O Bertie!  At last!  At last!”

The figure drew back slightly, lifted his hat; and where she had expected to see her brother’s golden curls, the crisp, black locks of Mr. Dunbar met her gaze.

“You!  Here?”

She staggered, and sank back on the bench; the realization of Bertie’s peril throttling the joy that leaped up in her heart, at sight of the beloved features.

“I am here.  I come as promptly to fulfil my promise as you to keep your tryst.  Do you understand me so little, that you doubted my word?”

Her bonnet had slipped back, and as all the chastened beauty of her face framed in the dainty cap, became fully exposed, a heavy sigh escaped him, and he set his teeth, like one nerved to endure torture.

For months he had nourished the germ of a generous purpose, had tried to accustom himself to the idea of ultimately surrendering her; but in her presence, a certain bitter fury swept away the wretched figment, and he remembered only how fair, how holy, how dear she was to him.  Once more the cry of his famishing heart was:  “Death may part us.  I swear no man’s arms ever shall.”

“Why waylay and torment me?  Have I not suffered enough at your hands?  Between me and mine not even you can come.”

“Take care!  For your sake I am here, hoping to spare you some pangs; to allow you at least an opportunity to see him—­”

“What have you done?  Don’t tell me I am too late.  Where is he?  Oh! where—­where is he?”

She had sprung up, and her hands closed around his arm, shaking it in the desperation of her dread; while her voice quivered under the strain of a conjecture that Bertie had already been arrested.

“Where is your chivalrous, courageous, unselfish, devoted lover?  To ascertain exactly where he skulks, is my mission to Canada; for I thought I had schooled myself to bear the pain of—­”

“What do you mean?  What have you done with my Bertie?  Oh—­”

She threw herself suddenly on her knees, held up her hands, and a wailing cry broke the stillness: 

“Save him, Mr. Dunbar!  You will break my heart if you bring ruin upon his dear head.  He is all I have on earth, he is my own brother!  My brother! my brother!”