One figure alone was real,--one face alone smiled out of the cloudy vista of thoughts and memories, with the true glory of an ineffable tenderness--the sweet, pure face of Mary, with her clear and candid eyes lighting every expression to new loveliness.

On Angus Reay his mind did not dwell so much--Angus was a man--and as a man he regarded him with warm liking and sympathy--but it was as the future husband and protector of Mary that he thought of him most--as the one out of all the world who would care for her, when he, David Helmsley, was no more.

Mary was the centre of his dreams--the pivot round which all his last ambitions in this world were gathered together in one focus,--without her there was, there could be nothing for him--nothing to give peace or comfort to his last days--nothing to satisfy him as to the future of all that his life had been spent to gain.
Meantime,--while the train bearing him to Exeter was rushing along through wide and ever-varying stretches of fair landscape,--there was amazement and consternation in the little cottage he had left behind him.

Mary, rising from a sound night's sleep, and coming down to the kitchen as usual to light the fire and prepare breakfast, saw a letter on the table addressed to her, and opening, it read as follows:-- "MY DEAR MARY,--Do not be anxious this morning when you find that I am gone.

I shall not be long away.