What was the real, the actual truth, he wondered.  Was she still his, as she had ever been, or was she playing him false?

Little did the girl dream of the extent of her lover’s knowledge of certain facts which she was hiding from the world, vainly believing them to be her own secret.  Little did she dream how very near she was to disaster.

Walter Murie had, after a frivolous youth, developed at the age of six-and-twenty into as sound, honest, and upright a young man as could be found beyond the Border.  As full of high spirits as of high principles, he was in every way worthy the name of the gallant family whose name he bore, a Murie of Connachan, both for physical strength and scrupulous honesty; while his affection for Gabrielle Heyburn was that deep, all-absorbing devotion which makes men sacrifice themselves for the women they love.  He was not very demonstrative.  He never wore his heart upon his sleeve, but deep within him was that true affection which caused him to worship her as his idol.  To him she was peerless among women, and her beauty was unequalled.  Her piquant mischievousness amused him.  As a girl, she had always been fond of tantalising him, and did so now.  Yet he knew her fine character; how deeply devoted she was to her afflicted father, and how full of discomfort was her dull life, now that she had exchanged her school for the same roof which covered Sir Henry’s second wife.  Indeed, this latter event was the common talk of all who knew the family.  They sighed and pitied poor Sir Henry.  It was all very sad, they said; but there their sympathy ended.  During Walter’s absence abroad something had occurred.  What that something was he had not yet determined.  Gabrielle was not exactly the same towards him as she used to be.  His keen sensitiveness told him this instinctively, and, indeed, he had made a discovery that, though he did not admit it now, had staggered him.

He stood there at the open window chatting with her, but what he said he had no idea.  His one thought—­the one question which now possessed him—­was whether she still loved him, or whether the discovery he had made was the actual and painful truth.  Tall and good-looking, clean-shaven, and essentially easy-going, he stood before her with his dark eyes fixed upon her—­eyes full of devotion, for was she not his idol?

She was telling him of a garden-party which her mother had arranged for the following Thursday, and pressing him to attend it.

“I’m afraid I may have to be in London that day, dearest,” he responded.  “But if I may I’ll come over to-morrow and play tennis.  Will you be at home in the afternoon?”

“No,” she declared promptly, with a mischievous laugh, “I shan’t.  I shall be in the glen by the first bridge at four o’clock, and shall wait for you there.”

“Very well, I’ll be there,” he laughed.  “But why should we meet in secret like this, when everybody knows of our engagement?”