present into the river. While he stood there he saw a figure pass along the Banks on the other side. Tom followed it, keeping in the shadow of the trees. He saw presently that his suspicions were correct it was Phil Ransford. Tom pulled up suddenly and held a council of war with himself. The result was that he went straight to his rooms, laid aside his college gown and cap, put on a hat, took up a heavy stick, and came forth again. It had occurred to him that Phil Ransford was a big, heavy fellow, and that it required a stick to make the odds even, despite the old maxim that he is thrice armed who has his quarrel just. He strode out for the North Road, his teeth clenched, his mind in a tempest of rage. In less than a quarter of an hour he was on the highway. He lingered for a few minutes beyond the toll-gate, and a carriage passed him while he stood there. He did not wait to satisfy himself, but concluded that this was Ransford's vehicle, though it was not; for Phil had planted his carriage in a by-lane, out of the general view. Clytie's daring admirer was fully prepared to act upon his letter, in the event of the signal being given, and he had made up his mind that Clytie would not hesitate when the time came.

At a quarter to ten Phil Ransford was calmly watching the Hermitage window. He was stationed within the gateway of St. Bride's Churchyard. Tom held him in surveillance, and saw the window too from the darker portal of the church porch itself. The minutes went hurrying on, but the beating of Tom's heart was faster than the clock. It was a supreme moment in his life when the dreaded hour quivered in the steeple, and the warning chimes began. He felt that he would pledge his very soul if such a sacrifice would ensure Ransford's disappointment. He clutched his stick, and held his breath, and watched the window. At last Time brought up the fatal moment-big with fate, but calm and quiet, as if nothing depended upon it. The faithful clock struck the first note, and the window was immovable; the Venetian blind remained closed, the subdued light was unchanged.

One, two, three, four, the clock went on, and Phil thanked God between his teeth; and his breath came hot and thick with hope and fear and thankfulness.

Phil Ransford stood calmly in the deepening shadow of the gateway. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! The dreaded hour had come and gone. Tom Mayfield breathed freely. He shook himself like a dog after a bath, and felt that he was a coward that he had doubted Clytie for a moment.

But Ransford still stood there in the shadow, watching and waiting.

"I will go and tax him with his infamy," Tom said to himself, and he was on the point of acting upon the thought when the window blind moved. Phil's head was bent forward with sudden expectation. The blind was drawn slightly, just sufficient to admit of the window being lifted. Tom Mayfield's heart stood still. The window was raised. A jar of flowers was placed outside. Tom grasped the hard porch to support himself. A second pot of flowers followed, a jar crowded with blossoms, which for a moment gleamed in the light, and then window and curtains were closed.

Phil Ransford quietly disappeared, and Tom stood listening to the sound of his footsteps, as his cruel rival walked along the Bailey, probably to put some final touches to his diabolical scheme before midnight. Tom was stupefied. The shock which he had suffered was all the more intense coming at last so unexpectedly, when all danger seemed to be over. Nearly half an hour had passed before he left his hiding-place.

What should he do? He sauntered home to the old College Gateway. His lamp was lighted. Its warm rays fell upon the white figure. Tom shuddered, and taking it by the neck flung it under the grate. It had only lain there a few minutes, chipped and bruised, when he picked it up and wiped the dust from it with his handkerchief, and replaced it on the mantelshelf. Then he sighed as if his heart were broken.

"O Clytie," he said in a whisper, "Clytie, Clytie, you have killed me." The tears welled into his eyes. He laid his head upon the table and sobbed.

"There! it is over," he said presently. "I am not the first fool who has been trampled down and ruined by a woman. Ruined! Yes, my life is over!"

The face of the student was a picture of despair and resignation; half passionate, half scornful. The clear grey eyes were wet with tears. It was a noble face, full of a calm intellectual beauty. A firm, well-shaped mouth, a delicate nose, lacking strength, perhaps, but not sensibility, a well-cut chin, with a light brown pointed beard. It was the sort of face that would have done for a study of Faust in the first bud of his renewed youth, and with the sorrow of his crime come too early into his eyes.

"I must warn the old man," he said; "but how? Better let him make his own discovery. Shall I lie in wait for the thief, and warn him? No, that would be folly. O Clytie! Thou art indeed a cruel, heartless, miserable creature! Poor old Waller. My God, what a sorrow is coming upon us all! And how to avert it? There is no

way; for who can change a woman's heart, who alter her fancy, who say to her 'Go this way' when she has set her mind upon another? I wonder that I do not wish to kill this man now. I seemed to thirst for his life when I saw him there. Now I care no more about him. She loves him; let her have him. O my God, that I can say so! The end has indeed come."

Then all suddenly Tom's disappointment entered another phase. He strode about the room, muttering and threatening.

"What a tame, cowardly ass I am!" he exclaimed, standing in front of the soiled figure. "So, my lady, thou perjured traitress, thou wilt deceive thy poor old grandfather! Miserable woman. No, no, I will have a hand in this. I will snatch thee from his arms, and spurn thee in his presence. He shall not carry thee off to-night, at all events. That crime shall have postponement, come what come may."

He buttoned his coat; then took up his stick, and laid it down again contemptuously.

"No, Tom, you want no stick, your cause is bludgeon enough in itself, and hate will give you strength."

He turned out his lamp and left the house, which was all quiet; the Dunelmites went to bed early. It was half-past eleven when he found himself standing opposite to the Hermitage. He heard the watchman's footsteps half a mile away, and knew that this portion of the nightly beat would not be traversed again for an hour.

There was not only a light in the first floor window of the Hermitage, but a candle was burning in the room above. While he was wondering after the other, and Phil

what this meant, the lights disappeared one Ransford's shadow fell upon the pavement. The truth is the Wallers were up later than usual. Clytie had complained of faintness during the evening, and had been low-spirited and dull. Old Waller had suffered some remorse on account of his treatment of his grandchild, and had kept her up talking of old days, and painting pleasant pictures of a holiday he intended for her in the autumn. At length they had said good-night to each other, and the old man was just going to bed, when Tom saw the lights put out, and Phil Ransford come creeping along the Bailey with the cringing gait of a vulgar thief.

Phil looked up and down the street. The moon gave him a long dark shadow for a companion, but he saw no other moving thing about. Tom had crouched behind the church gates, trembling with rage and hatred; he had almost bitten his lip through in trying to keep himself still, and his hands were clutched with a fierce resolution. The midnight robber hovered about the Hermitage, and then

stealthily listened at the door. Tom crept over the road crouching like a tiger, until he had reached the kerb-stone, and then he sprang upon Ransford with a shriek of hate.

"You infernal villain!" he yelled, leaping at his throat and hanging there for a moment. Then tightening his hold with the left hand, he released his right and dashed his fist in Phil's face-once, twice, thrice, with the rapidity of a pugilist.

"Damn you!" he screamed again and again. Phil staggered against the door, all too surprised and stunned to offer any defence, while Tom rained blows and curses upon him with the ferocity of a fiend.

In the midst of the struggle the Hermitage door opened, and Phil Ransford fell into the passage, bleeding and insensible, in presence of the terrified household.

CHAPTER XI.

ASHES.

FIVE o'clock in the morning. Bright, dewy, glowing summer. The smell of newly-mown hay comes from the fields outside Dunelm. Everything is fresh and beautiful. The birds are singing everywhere. Up in the Cathedral tower the rooks are calling to each other. In the Hermitage garden blackbirds are hopping about among the old-fashioned flowers. The showy jay darts hither and thither. Broods of young birds are flying about in the meadows. June is just merging, green and radiant, into July, the loveliest month of all the year in this northern land. Arcadia might borrow the tints and sunshine of this summer-time of Dunelm. That wood where Tom Mayfield proposed to Clytie, it was a paradise at five o'clock in the morning.

How still it is! How supremely beautiful! As if last night's brawl had never occurred. As if Tom Mayfield had not lain down for ever all purpose and ambition in life. As if Mr. Philip Ransford were not lying at the Hill bruised and cut and chagrined beyond repair. As if old Waller were not lying asleep, worn out with abusing the girl who is standing by his side pale and wild with fear, remorse, and indignation. As if there were no possibility of that sad look of hers, as she bends over the old man, being her last. As if she had not resolved to leave the Hermitage for ever!

Oh the cruel sun, to come streaming in upon that scene of desolation! "You will cast me forth to-day," said the girl, looking at the unconscious old man; "I am cruel, faithless, a curse upon you, a

blight; I am to be driven out, and Dunelm shall point at me with scorn! I do not think you meant all you said, but I am sick of it all-sick-weary. I must go, and I will go, Heaven help me!" The old man was lying on the sofa in the room which was dining and drawing-room and library all in one at the Hermitage. It was the snuggest and prettiest of rooms. Papered with a light sea-green paper, it was furnished in walnut, and carpeted with a dark crimson piece of Brussels. The door was oak, the skirting board round the room was oak, the mantel-piece was black marble; the window was draped with lace curtains, and a basket of flowers stood in the recess of the window. At one end of the room was a well-filled bookcase; at the other, Clytie's piano and work-table. A couple of easy chairs, a loo table, a handsome chimney glass that reflected a couple of fine bronze statuettes, made up the catalogue of the furniture. Clytie took in all the happy, comfortable picture at a glance, and her heart almost failed her. The sun poured a flood of light into the room. Clytie laid her hand upon the piano affectionately as if it were a thing she loved. She kissed the flowers in the window-took up the vases and jars separately and kissed them.

"Oh, let me go quickly," she said to herself, "before I repent, or before the day comes and they thrust me forth, and the women of the city point at me and jeer, and call me the names you called me, O cruel grandfather!"

She opened her work-table, took out a purse, and then sat down and wrote:

"My dear grandfather, I am gone. I could not endure it any longer. Your cruel words, dear, you did not mean them, but I could not bear them any longer, and I am so wretched and sad, and it would have killed me to be thrust out into the streets and have all Dunelm pointing at me. O my dear grandfather, you should not have said that, and never, never should you have called me names, and in their presence, and before all. Oh forgive me, dear! Be happy without me. I am not what you think me. I am not guilty. I am an unfortunate girl-unhappy and unfortunate. O my dear grandfather, don't fear for me; I can work, and when you love me again, and can think of me as you used to do, I will come back to you. It is better that I should go, and save you the pain of sending me forth and disgracing and humiliating me before the people of this cruel, hateful, lying and slanderous city. Good bye; don't follow me; soon I will tell you where I am. Pray for me, forgive me, and try and think of me as I was. On my soul and by the