his breast, she began to sob bitterly, murmuring, "Oh my darling, my
darling, what shall I do without you?"

Over the brief and distressing scene which followed it may be well to
drop a veil. Leonard's bitterness of mind forsook him now, and he kissed
her and comforted her as he might best, even going so far as to mingle
his tears with hers, tears of which he had no cause to be ashamed. At
length she tore herself loose, for the shouts were growing louder and
more insistent.

"I forgot," she sobbed, "here is a farewell present for you; keep it
in memory of me, Leonard," and thrusting her hand into the bosom of her
dress she drew from it a little packet which she gave to him.

Then once more they kissed and clung together, and in another moment she
had vanished back into the snow and darkness, passing out of Leonard's
sight and out of his life, though from his mind she could never pass.

"A farewell present. Keep it in memory of me." The words yet echoed in
his ears, and to Leonard they seemed fateful--a prophecy of utter loss.
Sighing heavily, he opened the packet and examined its contents by the
feeble moonlight. They were not large: a prayer-book bound in morocco,
her own, with her name on the fly-leaf and a short inscription beneath,
and in the pocket of its cover a lock of auburn hair tied round with
silk.

"An unlucky gift," said Leonard to himself; then putting on his coat,
which was yet warm from Jane's shoulders, he also turned and vanished
into the snow and the night, shaping his path towards the village inn.