lashes upon the cheek; the witching curves and turns of the beloved face. Summoning all his courage, he withdrew his eyes from it and stumbled blindly from the

room.

Philida was young and vigorous. Beneath the crude but effective ministrations of the farmer's wife, she soon regained consciousness; and the sob of relief and joy with which she recognised the duchess reduced that dame to tears, of which she was almost as much ashamed as a boy, and managed with as ill a grace.

Philida looked about her, wondering, as if she would have asked concerning some expected presence, but she remained silent.

The news of her recovery was brought to Lord Yerington as he was pacing the garden. When he heard it, he raised his hat and stood for a moment in mute thankfulness.

The dawn was colouring the eastern horizon with a golden promise of a fair day, when they began their return journey. Yerington borrowed a horse from the farmer and rode beside the coach window. He had insisted upon this arrangement, that Philida should have more privacy and comfort within. But these reasons were not all the truth. The sight of her reproached him ceaselessly.

As the coach rolled on, and he rose and fell in the saddle, he gave no heed to the scene through which they were passing; the fresh new world in the dawning light, the rim of the sun, a sickle of gold above the hills, and the mysterious purple of the ploughed fields. The lazy whistle of the ploughboy came across the emptiness with a plaintive cadence, full of suggested sadness.

His eyes strayed off to the dim interior of the coach. His ears were strained for the sound of Philida's voice, which reached him but seldom, for most of the time she

slept, her youth and health yielding to Nature's kind impulse of restoration.

As they approached near to the slight elevation that led to Marsden House, the duchess leaned out of the window, and called him softly. He drew near to catch her words., Come to me to-day at twelve, without fail," she whispered. "I've much I want to say to you."

He bowed an assent, his hand upon the coach windowcasing.

"And she?" he questioned.

With a smile, she pointed to the interior of the equipage. The smile and the gesture were full of hovering motherhood. The duchess' heart, new furrowed by recent fears and griefs, was very tender at that moment. Yerington looked in, holding his breath.

The duchess was satisfied with his expression. She interrupted him.

"At twelve?" she said.

He started, and gathered himself together with an effort.

"At twelve," he answered; and raising his hat, he wheeled his horse and cantered away.

"I never thought Yerington could be so hard hit," mused the duchess contentedly.

CHAPTER XXXIV

COMMITTED TO DECEPTION

Bad begins, and worse remains behind.
-SHAKESPEARE.

TRUE to his promise, at twelve o'clock Yerington stood bowing upon the threshold of the morning-room at Marsden House, whither he had been shown at the duchess' request.

During his ride over, he had been tortured by conflicting resolves. One moment, he had determined to tell the truth, simply and directly, and accept his dismissal-he knew the duchess too well to entertain any doubts upon that head—and then go home and balance his obligation to Lord Burroughs by ending the matter. This resolve registered, he rode on, the conflict stilled for the moment. Before he had ridden a hundred yards, to his own surprise he found that a new impulse was battling to the front. He was scarcely conscious of its voice within him, before it became irresistible. Why face this useless ordeal? Let him take leave of the duchess with what dignity he might. She would know when it was past. He did not name Philida. His thoughts veered away from her. At this moment he had not the strength to face that battle.

But as he rode up to Marsden House, the most honest and strongest of him was the master. He was resolved to tell the whole truth, cost him what it might.

As he entered, the duchess looked up from where she was seated at her escritoire.

"Come in, Knight-Errant," she said, extending a hand

for his salute; "and pray be seated until I've sanded this and sealed it. I've been swimming in ink for the last two hours."

Her manner was brisk. She had the air of a woman much occupied by an agreeable pressure of affairs.

He chose a chair by the hearth; his long legs extended, dwarfing the delicate, feminine little room; and swinging his whip-stock thoughtfully between his knees, he waited. His resolve was strong upon him, and he was conscious of a certain large, impersonal patience. Life, he felt, for him could possess no more surprises.

The duchess finished her letters and, going to the door, gave them to a lackey in the hall.

"There," she exclaimed, with a breath of triumph, that is the second lot; the first I sent to catch the Flying Mail."

Lord Yerington had risen to his feet.

The duchess paused before him, smiling.

“Lud, sirrah,” she said, "I vow Philida has come off better, poor child, she looks purely compared to thee. What a chalky visage for six feet one and thirteen stone! Better borrow a little of my crimson than present such a complexion to your lady-love's inspection. I'll be bound you look as if it were life and not love was in the question."

He gazed at her thoughtfully.

She herself looked ruddy and well, with her towering old-fashioned fontange in which she still persisted. "Perhaps 'tis love and life," he said.

The duchess, secretly pleased, disparaged him. "Tut, man, leave such words as these to maids. I'll be sworn you men are of a hardier constitution."

He took a few troubled steps across the room, and when he returned again and faced her, he wore an expression the duchess had never perceived in him before. His

face was stronger, more resolute, and sadder. He was determined to come directly to the point and tell her the truth he had concealed too long.

"Duchess," he began, "I've something of grave import I must say to you. Let me tell you in advance that no one can accuse me more bitterly than I accuse myself."

The duchess had turned away and was fumbling in a bag for her netting.

"Oh, lud, lud," she said over her shoulder, "the same old cry again. We've had all that out before, Yerington. You have told me that you loved Philida, and no woman stands between you. Nothing else is of the slightest importance."

She had taken out her cherry-coloured netting now, and seating herself, she began it in a leisurely, sociable fashion.

"I warn you, Yerington," the cherry-coloured silk spinning off rapidly beneath her skilful fingers, "that rapine, murder and sudden death would not affect my appetite for dinner. I'm a hard, worldly old woman, and my one virtue is the fact that I affect to be nothing better. As for Philida, she won't hear a word of your confession, so don't waste time."

His face was so serious that it should have warned her. But she was so occupied with her own ideas that she had no eyes or ears for him.

"Your grace" he began.

"Yes, yes, I know all about it," she interrupted. "If you must tell me, of that anon, but now listen to me. If I've not presented you with a face of such hang-dog gloom as you've brought here, it is not because all has been well."

66 It is not Philida?” he asked in instant alarm. "Nay, not Philida," she mocked; "she's marvellous well, for one who has been so sorely tried."