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towards her along the pavement, was Rodney Marsh! She could not tell whether it was pain or joy of which she was more vividly aware. Past pain of memory, and present joy in seeing him again, were queerly intermingled. Would he stop and speak to her? Or with cool nods, would they pass by? Slowly they drew near to one another, and Rodney’s eyes were fixed upon her. Simultaneously they halted—Marsh’s old felt hat was lifted, and then they were standing face to face.

“You’re off to the races I suppose,” he remarked, with an elaborate casualness.

“Yes, with the Ralstons,” answered Ann—equally casual.

They might have been two rather bored acquaintances meeting for a moment to exchange remarks about the weather.

“Is your leg all right again now?”

“A1.”

Ann longed to know what he was doing—if he were still at Tirau, or not.

“How’s Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

His face flushed a little. Her question brought back too vividly that last scene between them. But in Ann’s mind—innocent of any thought of wrong in connection with Holmes and herself—that incident appeared so trivial in comparison with the moment when Rodney told her that he did not want her to be his wife, that it was almost forgotten.

“He’s getting on all right, I think. I’m droving now. On my own.”

“You left him?”

“The bank cut down expenses on the place. I’d