shall it be. I have spoken."

He walked restlessly to and fro upon the windy hilltop. A sense of
freedom possessed him always upon these heights. The shackles of Gideon
Strong fell away. Food and clothing and education, these were great
things to owe, but life was surely a greater, and life he owed to no man
living--only to God. Was it a thing which he dared misuse?--fritter
helplessly away in this time-forgotten corner of the earth? Life surely
was a precious loan to be held in trust, to be made as full and deep and
fruitful a thing as a man's energy and talent could make it. To Gideon
Strong he owed much, but it was a debt which surely could be paid in
other ways than this.

He stopped short. A light footstep close at hand startled, then
thrilled him. It was Cicely--hatless, breathless with the climb, and
very fair to see in the faint half-lights. For Cicely, though she was
Gideon Strong's daughter, was not of Feldwick or Feldwick ways, nor were
her gowns simple, though they were fashioned by a village dressmaker.
She had lived all her life with distant relatives near London. Douglas
had never seen her till two months ago, and her coming had been a
curious break in the life at the farm.

He moved quickly to meet her. For a moment their hands met. Then she
drew away.

"How good of you, Cicely," he cried. "I felt that I must talk to some
one or go mad."

She stood for a moment recovering her breath--her bosom rising and
falling quickly under her dark gown, a pink flush in her cheeks. Her