Next day they rode merrily to Durford. At early morning they set out, when the white mist curled in the valley, and the russet trees, sun-kissed on the hills, gleamed like fiery tongues of flame above a silver sea; through the bright noonday they rode, when the mists like evil witches of the night had vanished before the sunbeams, the broad earth lay smiling up into the deep blue heavens, and the myriad creatures of earth and sky raised their tiny voices in harmonious Te Deum for the glory of life. Through a world of joy and sunshine they rode, until early in the afternoon they climbed the last hill and saw in the valley below the red-roofed cottages of the village and the tall grey chimneys of the Manor House hiding among the burnished leaves.

And from that point their ride was a royal progress.

Like lightning the news spread about the village that Mistress Barbara was come home. Cottage doors were flung open, women and children rushed headlong into the street to meet her. They crowded round her to kiss her hands, to shower greetings upon her; the women wept, like the foolish creatures they are; all the village was agog with joy. And Barbara, with shining eyes, laughed and waved her hand, and rode through them like a queen. At length they reached the park gates, and there was Cicely, her ribbons streaming in the wind, her hands outstretched in eager welcome, running full-pace to meet them.

Barbara leapt from her saddle, and with a sudden queer little sob rushed into her cousin's arms.

There they stood crying and kissing, while the villagers flung up their caps and laughed with delight, and the bells broke out into a wild peal of music because Barbara Winslow was come home.

Presently Cicely released Barbara and ran towards Ralph with a world of delighted greeting in her face, and as she took his hands her eyes fell on Captain Protheroe. For a moment she stared at him as one amazed, and then slowly the first bright joy died in her face, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eyes filled with misery and shame. Yet he, guessing nought, wondered at her glance, and felt himself unwelcome.

But Barbara saw nothing, her joy to be home again filled all her thoughts. She seized her cousin's arm, and broke into an eager chatter of explanations, rejoicings and questionings, till Cicely was fain to laugh in sheer bewilderment.

"Softly, softly, Bab," she cried; "I must have it all from the beginning. Come in, and tell me all. You are safe, and you are here, and that is all I care."

And so, Barbara, waving farewell to her followers, came at last to the house, and the tale was told.

Some hours later Captain Protheroe was alone in the large hall of the Manor House. Explanations had been given, questions answered; the excitement in the village had died away, and all was still and peaceful, with the sweet peace of a September evening.

He had been for some time alone.

Ralph, yielding to Barbara's insistence, had retired for a rest after his long ride, and the two cousins had early slipped away together to revel in a long talk.

He sat in one of the deep window-seats, gazing idly at the fading glows of the sunset, dreaming of the night when he had last stood there and struggled against the influence of the girl, who now was all the world to him. And as he looked back and thought on all she had been to him since that night, he wished with all his heart that Time would turn his hour-glass, and let him live those days again. Nay, give him back but three sweet hours again, and he would be content to endure even banishment from her side, with such a memory to soothe his pain. So he mused, concerned not that to many the shadow indeed proves dearer than the substance, nor that he whose memories are tender Is ofttimes happier than he who in the attainment loses the remembrance forever.

He was disturbed in his dreaming by the sound of his own name cried softly, and, turning, he found Lady Cicely standing close beside him, her hands tightly clasped, her head half turned away.

"Captain Protheroe," she said in a strained voice; "I—I have somewhat to say to you."

"To me?" he asked wonderingly. Then catching sudden sight of her face, he started back. "In heaven's name, Lady Cicely, what is it?" he cried. "Is Mistress Barbara——"

"Oh! Barbara is well," interrupted the lady quickly, with the faintest attempt at a smile. "'Tis of yourself I must speak, yourself and me."

He placed a chair for her, then took up his position opposite, leaning against the window frame, and looking down on her in wonderment.

Then, seeing she hesitated to speak, he asked gravely:

"In what have I been so unfortunate as to offend your ladyship?"

She glanced up in distress.

"Oh! 'tis not that. 'Tis I who have offended you. I have done you grievous wrong.'

"Done me wrong, madame?" he asked, smiling down at her, marvelling at the small troubles with which women love to torment their minds. "Nay, an it be so, madame, 'tis forgiven. Prithee, think no more on't."

"Oh! but I must," she cried wildly; "I have thought on it day and night since 'twas committed; thought on it every moment till I felt I must go mad an I could not see you to confess to't."

"Nay, madame, indeed it was not worth your thought, whatever it be," he answered gallantly. "That you have given me place in your gentle thoughts should be sufficient atonement."

But she, covering her face, burst on a sudden into bitter weeping.

"Oh, do not talk so!" she cried. "You do not know. You do not know."

His face grew grave. He took a step forward and leaned over her in deep distress.

"Nay, madame, I entreat you." he said gently; "indeed, you must not weep for such a thing. Come"—he coaxed lightly—"what is this grievous wrong? Why, you could scarce be more distressed had you betrayed me."

Then she dropped her hands and faced him.

"You have said it," she cried in a dry voice; "'twas indeed I who betrayed you."

He started from her and stood upright, looking down on her in amazement, in slowly gathering wrath.

"'Tis true," she sobbed; "I betrayed you to my Lord Jeffreys."

"You did?"

"Yes. I—came even from so doing when I met you—that night in Taunton."

"That night! And yet, madame, having done so, you allowed me to go on, without word of warning, into the trap which you yourself had set?"

His face was in the shadow, but she trembled at the suppressed anger in his tone.

"Is this true, madame?" he continued sharply.

She had no answer save a sob.

"And may I ask," he continued presently in the same stern tone, "may I ask your reason for—er—taking such an active interest in my affairs?"

"I—I deemed you had betrayed Barbara," she answered timidly.

"Your suspicion was as unjust as your revenge," he cried angrily. Then he checked himself, and presently continued coldly, "Your pardon, madame, I forgot myself. I believe,"—he drawled with a slight sneer—"in affairs of honour, 'tis not—customary to judge women by the standard usually applied to men."

Cicely winced at his words, but sobbed on helplessly, making no attempt to defend herself. Captain Protheroe walked slowly to the far end of the room and having partially mastered his anger, slowly returned to her side.

"Come, madame," he said sharply, "there is no need to weep more about the matter. The thing is done; there is an end on't."

"I—I did it for Barbara," she sobbed, stung by his tone to seek for some self-justification.

"Ah!" His tone was startled, questioning.

"Your life was to be the price of her freedom."

"Her freedom!"

"Yes. But, fool that I was, as well as traitor, they took my information and cheated me of the reward."

She burst into a fresh passion of sobs.

But now all trace of anger had left his face, he was eager, glad.

"But, Lady Cicely," he cried, "this is, indeed, a different matter; I had misunderstood. You were justified, perfectly. What a villain I was to doubt you. Madame, can you ever forgive me?"

Cicely stared at him in amazement.

"Nay, sir, I see no difference. Your words were just."

"Just! madame, they were shameful, infamous! I cannot hope to win your pardon for them. Why, Lady Cicely," he continued with boyish eagerness, "I am grateful to you for your action, most grateful. I count it the highest honour to have been privileged to serve Mistress Barbara, for," he added softly, "I would gladly die a thousand deaths to shield her from pain. I beseech you, madame, be comforted. 'Twas no betrayal, I was a most willing victim at the sacrifice."

But though she smiled faintly Cicely still wept.

"Ah! 'tis kind to say so," she cried, shaking her head, "But for me—for me who betrayed you! What respect, what honour have I left me?"

"Ah! madame, would my tongue had been cut out ere ever I spake those words," he cried miserably.

"Nay, the words were nought. But the deed! The deed remains the same. What must you think of me? Nay, what must I think of myself?"

Bitterly she wept, and he looked down on her in helpless despair.

Then he bent over her tenderly, and gently took her hand.

"Lady Cicely," he said softly, "what would you think of me, had I betrayed you to save Sir Rupert?"

"Ah!" Her sobs were arrested. She looked at him a moment, then gave a long sigh of slow-dawning comprehension.

"Yes, madame! Would you look upon me as worthy your contempt? Would you not rather be glad?"

"Yes! Yes!" she whispered eagerly.

"And for the rest," he continued gently, "'tis well enow, for Colonel Lovelace to write that love be little if honour be not more, yet there may be a love so self-forgetting that a man counts himself as nothing in comparison with it, and would gladly give his dearest part, even his honour, to serve his beloved. 'Twas with such a love, Lady Cicely, you loved your cousin, and by Heaven! she is worthy of it."

Cicely smiled and shook her head.

"These be somewhat indiscreet doctrines, sir," she said.

"Nay, madame, when was love noted for discretion?" he answered, smiling at her. "And, moreover, if your act were a betrayal, 'twas a right courageous one. I warrant me, 'twas no easy task for you, madame, to play the traitor."

She looked at him gratefully.

"How is it you understand so well?" she asked.

"I' faith, Lady Cicely," he answered with a sudden smile, "I fear me my record is not overclean. Not a month since, in this very room, I entered into a bargain, hardly consistent with my honour."

"And that, too, was for Barbara," she murmured softly.

"Even so. She has required much of us, has she not?" he continued, smiling. "Yet whoso is greatly loved, to her must much be given."

"And you do not regret it?"

"Regret, madame?"

"It hath cost you much."

"Maybe, but it has won me more." Then he added, half to himself, "For whatsoever befall me now, in this world or the next, I have at least had my hour of heaven."

There was a silence, broken only by Barbara's voice, singing in the room above.

Cicely rose to her feet.

"She is coming, we must go to supper."

Then she turned and laid her hand upon his arm—"You have been so good to me, Captain Protheroe," she said gently. "And what I may do in return, I gladly will. You love Barbara! Ah! I could tell you so much, so much, for who knows so well as a woman how women may be wooed. Could a man but have that knowledge, he might win every maid in Christendom. Therefore"—she smiled—"perchance 'tis better withheld. ............