awaking to the consciousness of love in its noblest, purest form, knew that from henceforth he was no longer alone!  A life,—­delicate and half broken by cruel destiny, hung on his for support, help and courage,—­a soul, full of sweetness and purity, clung to him for its hope of Heaven!  The glad blood quickened in his veins,—­he was twice a man,—­never had he felt so proud, so powerful, and withal so young.  Like the Psalmist he could have said ’My days are renewed upon the earth’—­and he devoutly thanked God for the blessing and glory of the gift of love which above all others makes existence sweet.

“My darling!” he murmured, as he walked joyously along the little distance stretching between the lodge gates of the Manor and his own home—­“She shall never miss one joy that I can give her!  How fortunate it is that I am tall and strong, for when the summer days come I can lift her from her couch and carry her out into the garden like a little child in my arms, and she will rest under the trees, and perhaps gradually get accustomed to the loss of her own bright vitality if I do my utmost best to be all life to her!  I will fill her days with varied occupations and try to make the time pass sweetly,—­she shall keep all her interests in the village—­nothing shall be done without her consent—­ah yes!—­I know I shall be able to make her happier than she would be if left to bear her trouble quite alone!  If she were strong and well, I should be no fit partner for her—­but as it is—­perhaps my love may comfort her, and my unworthiness be forgiven!”

Thus thinking, he arrived at his rectory, and entering, pushed open the door of his study.  There, somewhat to his surprise, he found Dr.  ‘Jimmy’ Forsyth standing in a meditative attitude with his back to the fire.

“Hullo, Walden!” he said—­“Here you are at last!  I’ve been waiting for you ever so long!”

“Have you?” and John, smiling radiantly, threw off his hat, and pushed back his grey-brown curls from his forehead—­“I’m sorry!  Anything wrong?” Dr.  ‘Jimmy’ shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing particular.  Oliver Leach is dead,—­that’s all!”

Walden started back.  The smile passed from his face, for, remembering the scarcely veiled threats of his parishioners, he began to fear lest they should have taken some unlawful vengeance on the object of their hatred.

“Dead!” he echoed amazedly—­“Surely no one—­no one has killed him?”

“Not a bit of it!” said Forsyth, complacently—­“It just happened!”

“How?”

“Well, it appears that the rascal has been lying low for a considerable time in the house of our reverend friend, Putwood Leveson.  That noble soul has been playing ‘sanctuary’ to him, and no doubt warned him of the very warm feeling with which the villagers of St. Rest regarded him.  He has been maturing certain plans, and waiting till an opportunity should arise for him to get away to Riversford, where