"I'm sure I don't," said Margie. "I don't care what people may say of Mrs. Connor; I prefer to judge for myself."

For my part," continued Mrs. Plaskitt, addressing herself to Essie alone, and turning her back on Margie, "I must own I never liked the notion of her being a Canadian and having lived abroad. When people have lived long abroad I always think there is something in their past history which cannot be satisfactorily explained."

"I should be very sorry if that were really the case," said Essie simply; "Mrs. Connor has always been so particularly kind to us."

Maggie, however, was not in the least convinced by all Mrs. Plaskitt's reasons, and directly her aunt was gone, announced her intention of going to see if Mrs. Connor had come home.

"As if I should drop her, just because old Wiggins, or some other old gossip, chooses to cook up a story about her, poor woman!" said Margie indignantly. "I shall make a point of showing how much I like her on every possible occasion."

Essie was a little more concerned; but Margie laughed at her for taking any notice of silly old Aunt Prue, and remained as staunch as ever to her trust in her friend.

But although she started a few minutes after Mrs. Plaskitt had taken her departure, she never

reached Mrs. Connor's house that evening. She was walking quietly down the village street, thinking over her talk with Mr. Norman that afternoon, and wondering if he had quite got over his old love for her, when she met Dicky Turvey, the old shepherd's grandson, running along as fast as his feet could carry him.

"What is the matter with you, Dicky? Where are you going in such a hurry?" she asked.

"It's for the doctor!" said the breathless boy, panting as he spoke; "it's the doctor I'm a-going for!"

"Is Miss Fairbairn worse, then, or what?" asked Margie, with a vague sense of terror in her breast. Dicky shook his head.

"It's not her. It's the master. He's shot himself!"

Margie gave a cry and caught hold of a paling that was at hand to support herself.

"What do you mean, Dicky?" she stammered out feebly, with white lips and trembling voice. "Is it your master, Mr. Maynard?

Dicky nodded.

"How did it happen? Is he much hurt?" she asked again, feeling as if each moment was an age. "Please, ma'am, I don't know," said the boy, staring at her with a vacant look.

"Don't stand here, you foolish boy," cried

Margie, scarcely knowing what it was she said in her wild grief. "Run on as fast as you can to

Dr. Hockin's!"

Dicky looked at her with an expression of blank amazement, and then set off again at the top of his speed.

As for Margie, she stood motionless for a minute, stunned by those terrible words which still rang in her brain.

There could be no doubt of the truth of it. Cornelius was dying, perhaps--who could tell ?— already dead. All her vexation and resentment, the bitterness which his words had left in her heart, the angry thoughts of the last few days, had vanished in one wild agony of remorse and love.

Wherever he was, she must find him and see him once more; and, forgetful of every one else, she hastened up the Manor-house hill as fast as her feet could carry her.

CHAPTER XIX.

"To love to-day and to breathe and see-
To-morrow perhaps to die-

But if all loved as the few can love,
The world would seldom go well,
And who need wish, if he dwells above,
For a deep, a long death knell ?”

JEAN INGELOW.

NDREW NORMAN left the carpenter's house that evening in a less peaceful

frame of mind than he had felt for a

long time. Of late he had accustomed himself to the idea of seeing Margie the wife of another, and flattered himself that he was entirely cured of his old passion. But those few minutes with her in the little parlour had made all the difference. It was vain to persuade himself that he had ceased to care for her, that she had become like other women to him; and what increased his trouble was the feeling that she was sad, and that, however much he might long to comfort her, he

must conceal his sympathy. Do what he would he could not escape from the haunting influence of those eyes, which seemed to follow him everywhere with their sorrowful expression.

With his mind too full of these thoughts to care where he was going, he wandered along the road till he reached the lane which led to the Ladyground.

The haymakers had all gone home, half of the field was already cleared, and only the waggon and a few rakes leaning against the trees were to be seen there now.

Norman stood looking over the gate at the bright green of the grass where the hay had been raked up, listening to the hundred voices of the birds, who kept up perpetual music here from dawn of day till nightfall. At that moment he heard footsteps behind him, and, turning round, he met Cornelius Maynard walking towards him with a gun on his shoulder.

The young farmer walked along with his hat set jauntily on his head, whistling the last new Christy Minstrel melody, and seeming altogether in the best possible humour with himself and the world in general.

"Fine weather this for haymaking," he said carelessly, as the schoolmaster stood back to let him pass through the gate. "I'm after these young

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