Chapter XVII: Part 17

"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.

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