"Ay, with thee; but maybe he has stolen to her side now thou art here."

"Dost think so?"

"Nay, I know not; but fill thy pipe, man, and wait. I have faith that our darling was not restored to us for such a life in death as this. I'

faith, friend Cobbe, I pray nightly that I may see some merry little prattlers with the faces of Gil and Mace, softened and sweet, playing round our chairs as we grow more wrinkled and more old. Heaven bless us! There's time enough yet. See here, man," he cried, rising and taking a curious flask and glasses from a corner cupboard, "here is some strange liquor sent me by Father Brisdone, a great man, now, in sunny France. He bids me wish him well when I drink thereof, and I do, and pray for his health and life. There," he continued as he filled the glasses, "here's Father Brisdone, and now here's Culverin Carr and his dear wife and children, bless them all."

"All," said the founder, fervently, as he drained his glass of the potent liquor; and then, as the evening crept on apace and the stars came blinking out, the two friends sat and smoked, with the founder's heart growing cheery from the words and liquor of his firm old friend.

It was as dark as a summer night knows how to be, when, after a final pipe, the founder rose to go.

"Nay, but I'll see thee home," said Master Peasegood; "and what is more, as it is early yet, I'll drink a flagon of ale and ask a blessing in the dear old--new--old--well, the to-be happy home;" and rising he strolled down the lane with his friend and across the bridge.

The founder opened the gate and let his companion through with a strange sensation at his breast, and he was about to lead the way round to the door when Master Peasegood's hand was laid upon his shoulder, and with a hoarse sob he sank upon his knees, and buried his face in his hands, weeping like a child.

It was almost dark when Gil Carr, who had seen the founder go, strolled slowly down towards the Pool-house. He was heartsick and weary, and the soft, balmy, night-air seemed filled with depressing influences.

Another disappointment and another, and hope more distant still.

The night mists were rising, and he smiled sadly as he glanced at the dark and dewy banks, and thought of the long-ago, when, with a love of the hidden and secret, he and Mace had held stolen meetings, till she chided him and bade him come no more.

"Hah, but they were happy days," he sighed, as he walked on and on till he stood beside the wide-spreading Pool, and thought of his narrow escape from death therein. Then a few steps further, and he was by the rushing outlet where the water dashed under the little bridge and onward to the dripping wheel.

"Where are Sir Mark and his fair wife now?" he muttered, as with a faint smile he thought of the knight's plunge in the rushing stream, and his own to fish him out.

Again a few steps and he was across the bridge, leaning on the garden gate, and gazing sadly at the new casement that had replaced the old.

Yes, it was well done, and he thought of his many meetings, of his waiting that night to carry his love away; then of the fight, the explosion, and his scorching ordeal as he clambered in and bore out her whom he believed to be poor Mace.

Sad thoughts--sweet thoughts--thoughts that almost unmanned him, so that when the moon rose, and he gazed still at the casement, he believed he was deceived, and that it was not Mace there, but some trick of the imagination.

There was the figure at the open window, and he was about to speak, but he checked himself, and stole away.

Hastily recrossing the bridge, he hurried along the lane, stooping gently here and there, and returning in a few minutes to bend over the tall bank facing the broad casement of the Pool-house.

In a moment after, diamond-wise, there shone forth from the dark grass four glowworms' lamps, the old love-signal of the past, and with beating heart--he knew not why--Gil retraced his steps, crossed the bridge, entered the garden, and, with his hands trembling, made his way towards where he could dimly make out the pale, sweet face in the halo of silver hair.

There was a rough, short ladder hard by, where Tom Croftly had helped to nail up the blossoming roses, close round Sweet Mace's panes; and Gil seized these rough garden steps as he stopped beneath, gazing with all his soul at the face of her he loved.

Was it a dream, or was it honest truth? Did he breathe and live and hear? Was he blind, or was she leaning out towards him, with outstretched hands, as her dear voice whispered with all the passion of her old, old love, the one word--"Gil?"

"Mace!" he cried, and with a bound he sprang to her side, to clasp her to his breast, as her own soft, round arms drew his face closer--closer to hers, and their lips met in one long, loving kiss.

Miracle? Merely such a one as love might perform; and when--how much later no one knew--the founder and Master Peasegood came slowly up, they saw and heard enough to make the latter's heart swell with joy as the father sank upon his knees in thankfulness for the blessing that had come at last.

The End.