thing it is advantageous to forget. But how closely does the ear of
self-service listen for the footfall of a most distant memory, when to do
so is to share even a reflected glory!

A week had gone since Philip had landed on the island. Memories pursued
him. If he came by the shore of St. Clement's Bay, he saw the spot where
he had stood with her the evening he married her, and she said to him:
"Philip, I wonder what we will think of this day a year from now!......
To-day is everything to you, but to-morrow is very much to me." He
remembered Shoreham sitting upon the cromlech above singing the legend of
the gui-l'annee--and Shoreham was lying now a hundred fathoms deep.

As he walked through the Vier Marchi with his officers, there flashed
before his eyes the scene of sixteen years ago, when, through the grime
and havoc of battle, he had run to save Guida from the scimitar of the
garish Turk. Walking through the Place du Vier Prison, he recalled the
morning when he had rescued Ranulph from the hands of the mob. Where was
Ranulph now?

If he had but known it, that very morning as he passed Mattingley's house
Ranulph had looked down at him with infinite scorn and loathing--but with
triumph too, for the Chevalier had just shown him a certain page in a
certain parish-register long lost, left with him by Carterette
Mattingley. Philip knew naught of Ranulph save the story babbled by
the islanders. He cared to hear of no one but Guida, and who was now to
mention her name to him? It was long--so long since he had seen her
face. How many years ago was it? Only five, and yet it seemed twenty.

He was a boy then; now his hair was streaked with grey. He was light-
hearted then, and he was still buoyant with his fellows, still alert and