Far away down in the depths of the "coombe," a church bell rang softly for some holy service,--and when David Helmsley awoke at last from his death-like swoon he found himself no longer alone.

A woman knelt beside him, supporting him in her arms,--and when he looked up at her wonderingly, he saw two eyes bent upon him with such watchful tenderness that in his weak, half-conscious state he fancied he must be wandering somewhere through heaven if the stars were so near.

He tried to speak--to move,--but was checked by a gentle pressure of the protecting arms about him.
"Better now, dearie ?" murmured a low anxious voice.

"That's right! Don't try to get up just yet--take time! Let the strength come back to you first!" Who was it--who could it be, that spoke to him with such affectionate solicitude?
He gazed and gazed and marvelled,--but it was too dark to see the features of his rescuer.

As consciousness grew more vivid, he realised that he was leaning against her bosom like a helpless child,--that the wet grass was all about him,--and that he was cold,--very cold, with a coldness as of some enclosing grave.