A humble grave--with the clods of earth still fresh and brown upon it--the chosen grave of "one of the richest men in the world!" She repeated this phrase over and over again to herself, not knowing why she did so.

Then she knelt down and tried to pray, but could find no words--save "O God, bless my dear love, and make him happy!" It was foolish to say this so often,--God would be tired of it, she thought dreamily--but--after all--there was nothing else to pray for! She rose, and stood a moment--thinking--then she said aloud--"Good-night, David! Dear old David, you meant to make me so happy! Good-night! Sleep well!" Something frightened her at this moment,--a sound--or a shadow on the grass--and she uttered a cry of terror.

Then, turning, she rushed out of the churchyard, and away--away up the hills, towards the rocks that over-hung the sea.
Meanwhile, Angus Reay, feverish and miserable, had been shut up in his one humble little room for hours, wrestling with himself and trying to work out the way in which he could best master and overcome what he chose to consider the complete wreck of his life at what had promised to be its highest point of happiness.

He could not shake himself free of the clinging touch of Mary's arms--her lovely, haunting blue eyes looked at him piteously out of the very air.

Never had she been to him so dear--so unutterably beloved!--never had she seemed so beautiful as now when he felt that he must resign all claims of love upon her.
"For she will be sought after by many a better man than myself,"-- he said--"Even rich men, who do not need her millions, are likely to admire her--and why should I stand in her way ?--I, who haven't a penny to call my own! I should be a coward if I kept her to her promise.