sacrificed me--partly to his own sense of self-respect, partly to
his conviction that the difference between us in rank made it his
duty to check all further intercourse before it was too late.

Buried in their retirement in a remote part of Scotland, the
little household lived, lost to me, and lost to the world.

In dreams, I had seen and heard Mary. In dreams, Mary saw and
heard me. The innocent longings and wishes which filled my heart
while I was still a boy were revealed to her in the mystery of
sleep. Her grandmother, holding firmly to her faith in the
predestined union between us, sustained the girl's courage and
cheered her heart. She could hear her father say (as my father
had said) that we were parted to meet no more, and could
privately think of her happy dreams as the sufficient promise of
another future than the future which Dermody contemplated. So she
still lived with me in the spirit--and lived in hope.

The first affliction that befell the little household was the
death of the grandmother, by the exhaustion of extreme old age.
In her last conscious moments, she said to Mary, "Never forget
that you and George are spirits consecrated to each other.
Wait--in the certain knowledge that no human power can hinder
your union in the time to come."

While those words were still vividly present to Mary's mind, our
visionary union by dreams was abruptly broken on her side, as it
had been abruptly broken on mine. In the first days of my
self-degradation, I had ceased to see Mary. Exactly at the same
period Mary ceased to see me.

The girl's sensitive nature sunk under the shock. She had now no
elder woman to comfort and advise her; she lived alone with her
father, who invariably changed the subject whenever she spoke of
the old times. The secret sorrow that preys on body and mind
alike preyed on _her_. A cold, caught at the inclement season,
turned to fever. For weeks she was in danger of death. When she
recovered, her head had been stripped of its beautiful hair by
the doctor's order. The sacrifice had been necessary to save her
life. It proved to be, in one respect, a cruel sacrifice--her
hair never grew plentifully again. When it did reappear, it had
completely lost its charming mingled hues of deep red and brown;
it was now of one monotonous light-brown color throughout. At
first sight, Mary's Scotch friends hardly knew her again.

But Nature made amends for what the head had lost by what the
face and the figure gained.

In a year from the date of her illness, the frail little child of
the old days at Greenwater Broad had ripened, in the bracing
Scotch air and the healthy mode of life, into a comely young
woman. Her features were still, as in her early years, not
regularly beautiful; but the change in her was not the less
marked on that account. The wan face had filled out, and the pale
complexion had found its color. As to her figure, its remarkable
development was perceived even by the rough people about her.
Promising nothing when she was a child, it had now sprung into
womanly fullness, symmetry, and grace. It was a strikingly
beautiful figure, in the strictest sense of the word.

Morally as well as physically, there were moments, at this period
of their lives, when even her own father hardly recognized his
daughter of former days. She had lost her childish vivacity--her
sweet, equable flow of good humor. Silent and self-absorbed, she
went through the daily routine of her duties enduringly. The hope
of meeting me again had sunk to a dead hope in her by this time.
She made no complaint. The bodily strength that she had gained in
these later days had its sympathetic influence in steadying her
mind. When her father once or twice ventured to ask if she was
still thinking of me, she answered quietly that she had brought
herself to share his opinions. She could not doubt that I had
long since ceased to think of her. Even if I had remained
faithful to her, she was old enough now to know that the
difference between us in rank made our union by marriage an
impossibility. It would be best (she thought) not to refer any
more to the past, best to forget me, as I had forgotten her. So
she spoke now. So, tried by the test of appearances, Dame
Dermody's confident forecast of our destinies had failed to
justify itself, and had taken its place among the predictions
that are never fulfilled.

The next notable event in the family annals which followed Mary's
illness happened when she had attained the age of nineteen years.
Even at this distance of time my heart sinks, my courage fails
me, at the critical stage in my narrative which I have now
reached.

A storm of unusual severity burst over the eastern coast of
Scotland. Among the ships that were lost in the tempest was a
vessel bound from Holland, which was wrecked on the rocky shore
near Dermody's place of abode. Leading the way in all good
actions, the bailiff led the way in rescuing the passengers and
crew of the lost ship. He had brought one man alive to land, and
was on his way back to the vessel, when two heavy seas, following
in close succession, dashed him against the rocks. He was
rescued, at the risk of their own lives, by his neighbors. The
medical examination disclosed a broken bone and severe bruises
and lacerations. So far, Dermody's sufferings were easy of
relief. But, after a lapse of time, symptoms appeared in the
patient which revealed to his medical attendant the presence of


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