ever as the message and the word of a lost
heaven!

Clarke Jones did not see that Laurence was
in love, and only half suspected that May, who
was more impulsive, and had no other motive
than obedience lor concealment, loved him.
Laurence carefully concealed his feelings from the
lawyer—he had his own good reasons for doing
so—and Jones was too inflated with success to
read the heart of another man very accurately,
or to have his senses sharpened by the fear of
rivalry. He had become accustomed to the belief
that everything must give way to his wishes;
May Sefton's love among the rest.

One day—it was the afternoon of this very
spring day, the happiest of all May's life—
he stole upon her as she walked, restless with
joy, up and down the lane leading to the Hall,
recalling every word and look and gesture of
that glorious morning, and living over again the
divine joy of her hour of betrothal. Startling
her from this heaven of thought, Clarke Jones
suddenly stood before her. Without a moment's
warning, in his rude coarse bull-headed way he
told her that he had a mind for her, that he would
make good settlements on her, and that she might
do worse than take him. He had no grand name
like Laurence Grantley's, certainly, but he had
an honest one and was a safer man (with a thick
spluttering emphasis), and Laurence Grantley
would never be husband to her, if that was what
she was thinking of never! And he snapped
his fingers in the air.

May's blood was roused. May, all gentleness
and kindness, flamed up now, infuriate and
inspired by her great love. She spurned the man
with the bitterest disgust; hard words rose with
dangerous power to her lips; a fierce eloquence
possessed her; and Clarke Jones was for a
moment overwhelmed at the transformation.

"Ah!" he said at last, drawing a deep breath,
"this is because you love Grantley! A word,
miss, from me; a word that I could say, and
he would be nowhere. A pitiful scoundrel he
is a sneaking dog that I hold in my hand,
and could crush—there! like that!" setting his
heel on a worm that lay in his path. "Yes,
with one word I could crush him like that;
and by Jove, if you give me the chance—or
the cause—I will!"

"How dare you thus insult me?" cried May,
with a passionate gesture.

"I don't insult you, miss. If I speak the
truth of Laurence Grantley do I insult you?
Things have come to a pretty pass! Has that
scoundrel been poaching on my manor, I wonder?
By Jove, if he has——I want to know my place,
miss——"

"Know your place?" interrupted May; "your
place is lower than Mr. Grantley's lowest
servant! You desecrate his name by speaking it;
You are not fit to mention him in any way!"
May rushed scornfully away through the Grantley
gate.

She met Laurence in the walk. May threw
herself into her lover's arms, crying, "Laurence!
save me from that monster!""

Her distress, Clarke Jones's excitement and
undisguised insolence of manner, told Laurence
all. He put May gently away, and bade her
go up to his mother in the Hall; then, livid,
and with the expression that he had had when
his wife had taunted him on the crags above
the Tarn, he turned round, seized Clarke Jones,
and with the heavy dog-whip in his hand, flogged
him. The lawyer struggled to defend himself;
but Laurence was the more powerful man; and
now, with his long-smothered passions let loose,
and his hatred bracing his nerves and muscles, he
was desperately strong. Lash on lash, blow on
blow, the whole pent-up heart poured out in
blows and words of scorn and insult. At last,
wearied with his own passion, he flung the wretch
heavily to the ground, and strode up the broad
gravel-walk towards the house.

Clarke Jones went home, and for the next
fortnight was invisible to every one— "laid up
by illness," according to report.

The wedding-day came on quickly. All cause
of secrecy was now at an end, and Laurence was
almost boastful as to publicity. He was not
himself through it all; he was excited and defiant;
talked loud; talked fast; told all his feelings and
intentions in a manner quite unlike his usual
reticent pride, and seemed to find a certain strength
of hope, a certain comfort of conviction, in
reiterating to all what "he was going to do."
But it sounded rather like a challenge given
to some one, than the natural exposition of a
man's own mind. The preparations went on, in
the same ostentatious way. It was to be a
grander marriage than even the first had been.

All this time Clarke Jones was confined to
his own house, suffering severely from fever
and general indisposition. But, on the morning
of the marriage, and while May, in her bridal
dress, was waiting to be taken to church
one arm in a sling, his face strapped and
bandaged he limped to the house, and demanded
instant speech with her. A heavy bribe got him
admitted to where she sat, alone.

"Miss May,?' he said, suddenly.

She started up and gave a cry.

"Come! No screams!" he said, insolently;
"you are in my power at last! Hear me!" He
bent down close to her face. "You are going
to be his wife; to be to him what Annie Sibson
was; to lie by his side where she lay, and to
live on the gold which she brought. One word in
your ear: one word to tell you whom you marry.
Keep still, little bird; see! the very blood has
come from your struggles, and is falling from
your arm on to your dress! Fie! fie! Blood
on your bridal dress? Now keep still, and I'll
tell you a pretty little tale I heard one day on
the cliffs above Black Tarn—keep still, I say,
till I tell you my story."

He bent his lips to her ear and whispered
his revelation; then, with a low laugh, cried,
"Now go marry Laurence Grantley, with blood
upon your bridal dress!" and releasing her
suddenly, limped out of the room.

A scream rang through the startled house.
The bridesmaids and May's mother rushed to her.