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F THE WHITE FEATHER. By RUY." ( Continued.) On the other Bide of the rise they were swingteg up AOW, the road, within half a miley debouched ont*i a waste, through which ran the deep-rutted track of the heavy carts used in carrying away the gravel from the pits on either side. Once in this cart-track, and it would take little, at the pace they were going, to bring about a catas- trophe. Their only chance, she knew, was to stop the runaways before they quitted the comparatively smooth main road. Already the hedges were gliding by with a rapidity that made her feel sick and giddy—already her strength was exhausted, and Pythias had followed Damon's example, and, with a jerk of his obstinate little head at the fast-slackening reins, had got the bit fairly between his teeth. There was no help for it: she must confess herself beaten, and ask Vere to bdp her. She turned her head towards him, as, ignorant of their common danger, and indolently reckless by Mature, Hebe lay back watching her, and speculat- ing as to when she would have had enough of it, or The ponies would become amenable. Will you try and stop them, please ?" Gertie said at last. I—I think they must be running away, do you know." I've been thinking so for some time," Vere re- sponded, tranquilly, as he took the reins from her; only the road seemed all clear, and you didn't seem to mind, and I was afraid you'd be angry if I told you. Good God! what's the matter?" he cried, bis ice losing suddenly all its wonted langour, as he law her sink back pale and trembling. You're not afraid, I know; besides, they can go another mile at Ibis pace." They had reached the top of the hill by this time. Dhe waste land, scarred here and there, right and left of the rough road that ran through it, with rents and chasms that were visible even now, lay before them. a gentle descent of perhaps half a mile inter- vening. Gertie pointed forward. The gravel-pits, yonder!" she said. "Can you stop them? There is just time, I think." Hebe ".saw it all then—measured the danger, and yose to it, as he had done to greater peril than this, on] then it was his own life, not hers, he had had to look to. He gripped the slender white reins, taking a turn pound each hand, and wondered if they were likely lo bear the strain. Then he gave Gertie one look Blab said a good deal. Sit still, Miss Fairfax," he said, whatever hap- pens. I think it will be all right. They're running guite straight now and I shall try and turn them en to the bank on the off-side. We may go over, but its our best chance." Down the slope they rushed faster than ever-the danger was nearing at every stride. Vere couldn't help looking at his companion again —there was Jjust time for that before he made his effort. She was very pale, and her hands werea clasped lightly together. But there was never a sign or trace of fear upon her face, nor in the eyes she turned: to meet his. I'm not afraid, Vere," she said, calling him by his name at that moment unconsciously; "I can Irusttoyou." "That's right!" he muttered, with something that JOUnded very like darling;" trust to me. Rerhem- ber, I shall turn them on to the off-side. Hold There was little time to lose now. They were very Kr the end of the descent, and Yere had to take the b chance offered—a slight bend in the road, that ■ave him an advantage. With a sudden, vigorous |all on the off-rein, he got the runaways' heads towards the hedge at a point where the bank was lowest; and, unable to stop themselves, the ponies td to charge the quick-set. The jerk of the pole ng one offender on his knees, the phaeton gave a tremendous lurch, and only just did not go over. End then Vere was lifting Gertie from it in km arms; and the Childe," who had behavedsplen- didly throughout, was at the heads of the discomfited Kir, and all danger was over. Whereupon Miss irfax -did what she never remembered doing in all bar life; before, and fainted dead away. Horribly red at the deadly palor on her face, Hebe de- spatched "the Childe" for assistance to the nearest lottage, and then, not knowing what on earth to do, deposited his charge tenderly on the carriage feushions, which he had Sung out upon the bank, and began to adjure her passionately to speak to him, if inly one, word. Some minutes elapsed before poor Gertie recovered Consciousness. But presently the faint colour came back to her face her tfN opened; and »he' »aA Vedra hanging over her with a look of such pitiable) help- teMnessand concern on his usually insouciant visage that almost made her laugh, even then while her Mars caught his devout expression of relief and thank- talness. t She said nothing just at that moment, but the little "nd he was chafing so tenderly between 'his own trasn't drawn away; and Vere seemed quite content ftrith that. By-and-by the Childe came back. But the help be brought with him in the shape of a oomely cotter's lrife was no longer needed. Gertie professed herself guite right again, and quite ready to start. So Hebe put her carefully back into the phaeton, End took the reins himself-this time, without a word f objection from her, and then they started. At a foot pace over the rough road across the com- soon, the yawning gravel-pits making Gertie shiver and close her eyes, and looking uncommonly ugly, even feo Yen's careless glance, as he thought what might have happened to his wilful love by this time if she bad been alone and at a sober trot along the green lanes on the other side, the ponies thoroughly dis- comfited and ashamed, and scarcely needing Vere's arm hand over them. And so to Laureston, Little was said by either on the way. He felt it was no time to speak the words that bad been trembling on his lips an hour before, and Gertie's heart was too full for any idle talk. just npw. Once she had put out her hand to him, and—they Xrere on the terrace then-striven to utter collected Words of thanks. But her voice had filtered strangely, and the warm tears would start unbfdden into her dark eyes, usually so full of laughter and bandinage. So she had left her gratitude unspoken, and had gone off to tell the story of her adventure to my lady," leaving Vere, though, happier than he had been for IDanya long day, with the sound of his own name, as she had breathed It, lingering divinely In his ears. Meanwhile, the birds in the outlying-fields had been put up, and knocked over to the Don's' en- lire satisfaction. Hodges, the Laureston keeeper, Chary of praise as he was, grunted assent to the major's remark, that, on the whole, to-day was about fts good a first as he had known, while he received over the latter's equipment once more; and Dar pre- pared for a sharp walk home across the fields., Wonder why Fee didn't coma to lunch to-day ?" be soliloquised, between little clouds of blue tobacco pmoke, as he trampled through the crackling stubble on his way back, alone. "I suppose the headache IraS a headache; or perhaps Gertie has been putting lome nonsense into her head about Flora, and she, Vas afraid of being de trop: There's nothing more annoying than for outsiders to imagine there s any- thing between oneself and a woman when there isn't, and when, in this case, thefif won't be either. Flom! why she's carried on the game she's been try- ing with me with half-a-dozen fellows already. 1" don't mean-to be my wife's pis-aller, if I know it, by dove!" He stopped a moment to knock the ashes out of bis pipe, and-to replenish it here. On the farther side of the field he was crossing lay the roadtbat ran from the Place to Laureston. Bordered by a close-clipped hedge, side by side upon the footpath, walking very leisurely, two people came in sight while Dar was striking his vesuvian, and getting his fresh pipe fairly under way. The one nearest the hedge, a woman, kept her face lightly turned from it, and towards her companion Is tall, dashing, and umnistakeablo Plunger, in spite Of his round hat and pekin shooting-jacket), who, with his horse's bridle over his arm, lounged along guite contentedly. When his meerschaum was blazing away again "the Don turned to resume his march. As he did • |e, the tall figure on the footpath (which ran parallel pith the line ne was taking) caught his eye. What's Guy Devereux doing here 7" he thought, parelessly. He knew the man at once—a major on tlie tevalry "ff at Maidlow, who had once served in his *wn corps. "Ana who's the woman he's flirting with so heavily ?" I Just than Guy Devereux's incognita turned her face almost fully towards him, and consequently •may from Da*. The sinking sun lit up something in her bat. A long "bite feather, the same the Don had stood watching the evening before at the Bad- lkngly Station, whenJja Fee Blanche drove away with bis sister. u That's it is it?" iJar ejaculated. There's no Mistaking that white feather. We're carrying on a IiItJe e with that fellow \)evereux, are we ? a secret little game, it seems, since w, resort to migraine and Mitary walks. Little fool ytm are, F6e. You don't Icaew Guy as I do, or 2 doubt you'd trust him q«ite po4ar. I'd better drop down oh t hem, I think.' And the Don half torPO4 out of hie course to put his thought into practice. The pair on the footpath, howevwf, were either (ware of him or dreaded interruption from other Quarters, for they onitted the high road for a green lane that ran into it jast there, and were outi ot might at once. Dar checked himself with his hard smile, curving the ends of his moustache the while, and went itraight on his way. What am I about ?" he muttered aloud: what business is it of mine ? I suppose Fee can take care of herself. I don't like the mystery of the thing, though. Pleading a headache to compass a tete-a-tete with a man like Guy Devereux don't exactly look well. Hardly like her, I should have said. But then she never expected to be recognised at this time of day. She oughtn't to have shown that white feather. Bah! She's a woman! Why the devil should I be surprised at'anjthing of this sort ?" I dare say he succeeded in persuading himself that he was not surprised in the least before he reached Laureston. But he debated, chemin faisant, as to whether he ought )0 tell Helen what he had seen, and whether, as a simple matter of duty, he oughtn't to tell her, besides, something of the man in whose compromising company he had seen her. If she cares for him," he argued, "all I can say will be rather worse than useless. If she don't, why is she walking with him in country lanes alone at this hour, when she's supposed to be a victim to migraine indoors ?" On the whole Dar came to the conclusion that it would be better to bide his time and not interfere at present. Devereux, for aught he knew, might have won the right to play cavalier seul. And yet, why on earth should she make a mystery of what might be harm- less and natural enough ? It was the mystery: of course, which he found so unpleasant. He hadn't given Helen—whom, cynic as he was, he couldn't bring himself to think hardly of so soon-he hadn't given Cousin Helen credit for this turn for petty plotting. Gertie might be able, perhaps, to tell him something which would explain all. When, ten minutes later, he had mounted the terrace steps, Gertie, who had been lying in wait for him there, came upon him unawares, and did tell him something which he had been a long way from ever dreaming of. Yere Brkbazon's time had eome at last, it seemed When Gertie had come downstairs after rendering account of what had befallen her to my fcdy," and had tutored her voice to tell him coherently and Steadily that which waa but indeed his due, then Hebe knew that if he were to speak at all it should be npw. So, once again, the old old story that is ever new was whispered into eager-listening ears; and when it was ended the teller felt that it had not been told in vain. This was the news which Gertie had undertaken to break to Dar. The Don received it with his usual tranquillity, though he was rather surprised, and said he supposed children would be children, and made rather light of it, till his pet's eyes began to flash a little under his bandinage; and then he put his arm round her and kissed her, and told her (in that changed voice few but his sister and his mother ever heard, and even they not often) that it pleased him well to know she loved the man who was to himself as a brother already, and to whom he could trust even one so dear to him as she was. Dar! Dar 1 how kind you are to me," murmured Gertie through her happy tears, as her head rested on his broad shoulder. She knew how much these few fond words meant, coming from one like him. Then she took him off to my lady," to put the matter in the best light for the maternal eyes. My lady heard what both had got to say; and then, with a pleased smile that belied her words, told her daughter that was rather absurd, and so forth; that she ought to marry a prise-parti, like Penruthyn or Polwheal! that she and Vere were a pair of foolish children: and that if they insisted on marrying for love they must be prepared for all sorts of terrible consequences. But my lady's only con- dition was that her beau-fils to be should leave the army and settle down with. his wife in the vacant Dower House in the Park, the fact being that my lady**had taken a great fancy to "Hebe" from the first-possibly Ipecause her own Dar had risked his Me to save the boy's and that she had, I fear, mesdames, rather heterodox notions of what Constitutes a good match. It was evidently all right; for Gertie presently ordered Vere off to dress before time, his presence being required in my lady's morning-room so soon as that operation should be completed, from which' apartment. Mr. Brabazon issued forth, half an hour or so later, radiant and happy, leading his hostess down stairs to the drawing-room. That night all whom it might immediately cpncern were aware that Gertie Fairfax and Vere Brabazon, of Ours," were engaged, with the cordial approval of the powers that were. Helen Treherne had the whole story of their loves poured into her ears, as she and her cousin tot to- gether in the lattor'a room, during the pleasant half- hour before Pincot and dressing. "He's to leave the army, of course," Gertie said; I should never be let to go out there with him, you- know. Oh t if Dar would only find me a sister-in- law and sell out too, I should have nothing left to wish for. It's horrible to think he's going out again in December." ,i, ,I "Perhaps he won't go out again, who knows?" Helen said. "He will unless Why, he's talking of it already, and it's barely twenty-four hours since he1 came. It will take some one stronger than the Madrc and me to keep him in England, Nell." Well, isn't there Flora Hoddesdon?" Flora I Gertie shook her little head very wisely It won't be Flora, Nell, you'll see. I watched them to-day at luncheon. Either: it never was she, or it's some one else now.. It's air over between! them."1 VraiV Helen asked. VraiV Helen asked. I'm sure of it. I only wish I were as SUM about the some one else. And so the headache'* better dear?" Oh! yes it's quite well now," Helen affirmed. It was never very bad, I beleive, that migraine with which Cousin Helen had chosen to afflict herself that afternoon. The Don perhaps bad hit on its true cause when he put it down, rather egotistically, to be a desire on Fee's part not to be a de trap at The Place under certain probable circum- stances. Anyhow, Helen went away to her own room, after her conversation with Gertie, perfectly conva- lescent. The lovers spent the evening on the. terrace in the moonlight romantically enough. When Dar came into the Long Drawing-room after dinner he found Helen all alpne at the piano playing Chopin to her- self my lady he had just quitted, established on her sofa in her own chamber again. Wh|y didnVyou drive over with Gertie, Fee ?""the Don asked, as he came np to his cousin. She said you'd a headache. The drive would have done you good." "I think it would now," she answered but I thought I was better at home. It was fortunate I didn t go, wasn't it ? It's awful to think what might have happened to poor Gertie if only I, instead of Mr. Brabazon, had been with her." He paused after this a little while before he asked her: "But you went out somewhere, to-day ?" She never noticed the slight inflection in his voice thiat might have told her this was no such idle ques- tion, from his lips, as it seemed. "Yes. In the park; for about an hour, at sun- down. Major Devereaux called here; and I went out after he was gone." "I see," Dar said, "and only into the park? n« further?" I was alone, you know. Why do you ask?" She lifted her face to his as she spoke, and met his gaze unflinchingly. She does it well I" he thought; t, she must know what I mean, even if she didn't recognise me when she was with him. I am not to interfere, I suppose." Then he-replied aloud, "I fancied I saw you as I came home, that's all! at least I did see your white feather in the distance." When ?" Helen asked, smiling. The smile seemed to'stab him. M On the road betwesa this and The Place—about ten minutes from the lower lodge. Of course I was mistaken." Of OOUne r she answered; I wasn't out of aight of the terrace all the afternoon." And who wears a, hat like yours here ?" he ques- tioned rather suddenly. A" very simple idea had just occurred to him. No one but Gertie, that I know of," Helen said; I believe my toque to be unique down her. Gertie's feather is black, you know." It was a white feather I saw," he said, watching her keenly, and thinking again how well she did it. And it was yours—I oould have sworn." Stranger!' laughed Helen. My mistake, of course I', Dar said. And said no more. But as she sat alone that night in his own room, smoking over his log-fire, it seemed quite clear to him that [she meant to keep her own counsel, and that he had no right to interfere. Bight ? What was she to him or he to her ? There might be a hundred reasons why she should walk with Gay Devereux IMe: à-tëú, of which he knew, and could know, nothing. He hadn't, in- deed, given her credit for so amoli diplomatic rouerie and sang-froid. But what grounds had. he for think- ing she was incapable of either ? He hadn't -seen her since she was a child. The child was a woman now and how much faith in her kind had his experience taught him ? Daryl Fairfax grew quite his wonted cynical self again, over his last pipe tjiat pight. Se had settled, he persuadedthimself, in his own mind that his philosophy was the tree one. The. days came and went. There was little outward change in his manners towards Cousin Hclpn—he didn't call her Fee now-bnt she at least felt some- times that the Cousin Dar of the time had altered more than she had at first imagined. And not for the better. Since that first night on the terr<ve they had spent others there; and Helen Treherne was fain to confess, not without. a strange, sharp pang, that her hero could bo harsh, and, b'tter, and unjust., like an ordinary mortal. Only, that if he had been the ordinary mortal, she wouldn't have cared much for the discovery. But being what he was—her hero sincc she couid remember him—she did care a good deal. "The Don" was growing angry with h'mself and with her. Twice since that first time—twice ere the first days of October—the white feather had gleamed before his eyes as he neared home; and both times in the attendant cavalier he bad recognised Guy Deveruex. Both times, too, something he could hardly define the feeling—had prevented him from setting all doubts at rest, and making certanity doubly sure. He had no right. What was she to him ? /.h more than he had ever dreamed a woman could be—more bhan he would have acknowledged to himself then. Helen and he were left much alone together just now. "My lady" was an invalid, and Gertie and her lover had plenty to occupy them. And one night, when he had argued himself into the belief that he could talk on the subject gently and firmly and wisely, as became one who stood towards her in the relationship he did, Dar, at last, spoke wprds which first astonished, and then wounded and angered Helen sorely. It don't much matter what they were to us; but when he and his cousin parted for the night, the one felt they were words it would be very hard to forget or to forgive; the other, that he had been wrong in uttering them at all—wrong in thinking she would trust him—a fool for holding her what, in spite of all till now, in his heart of hearts, he had held her to be. Another month passed; and the Don" be- gan to think of his preparations for going ont next mail to rejoin. It was the first week in November he could catch the Marseilles steamer of the tenth. So he told them one morning that he was going. It was sooner than he need go. But what was there to stay longer for ? Certainly not to witness denoue- ment of that mysterious affair between Helen and Guy Devereux. Better, he thought, that he should be miles away if that was to end as he believed it would. So he wouldn't see the silent, wistful pleading of my lady's face she was too proud to ask her son to stay in England for her sake; so he made light of poor Gertie's entreaties and misconstrued Helen's sudden pallor, and the look that in her own despite came into the dark violet eyes, so true, though as he ohought so false, when they learned his resolve. And yet had see been all he remembered, all he had once thought of her, it might have been different. It wouldn't have been so hard to give up the excitement of his soldier's life, and the brilliant work Ours was doing far away up in the north-west," if he had found the dream which, hard, and cynical, and sel- fish as he might be, he had dreamed once realised in Cousin Helen. But that was not to be. And he hardened his heart, bitterly. Hardened it against those he loved. and those who loved him. One there was who loved him more than they all—one whose love he was flinging blindly away—who had deemed that words of his had wronged her past forgiveness, but who felt all anger die in her when she knew she was so soon to lose him. For he was her hero—unworthy of her perhaps, For he was her hero—unworthy of her perhaps. as he was, and, to her, greater, better, nobler than all others. If he had misjudged her, she couldn't hate him. If he had wronged her, she could pardon. For through all she loved him. It was a cruel, hard time for La Fee Blanche," those last few days of the Don's stay at Laureston. But it was almost worse for him. Have you ever known how— To be wrath with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain?" He was wroth with her though even when at the Maidlow ball she gave Guy Devereux the valses the had kept for him, and which he wouldn't ask for, and his jealousy had found confirmation of all his suspicions in the Plunger's bearing towards her; even when he called her frankness towards himself something worse than falseness, when he tried tohate, be loved her most. And now they were to part, sundered by a doubt, a suspicion: that seemed flimsy enough, but which to this man was irrefutable. He thought of this that afternoon which was to be his last at Laureston as he walked along a narrow path in the Pleasaunce, his feet rustling among the sere yellow leaves that lay thick upon the ground. It was a favourite lounge for outdoor smoking purposes, that little skilfully-arranged wood which bounded the deer-park on one side, and stretched away for a mile or so in the direction of The Place. Dar strolled moodily along, his hands in the Sockets of his shooting-jacket, and the smoke from is briile-gueule curling in blue clouds in the still, mild air. It might be the last time he should ever wall there; to-inorrow he would be gone. In his bitterness of spirit he wished he had never come to Laureston, never seen her face—never, as little by little he had done, learned to love love her with the last love of his life. Proof-armoured, as they who knew him best would have deemed him, he had gone down before a woman's weapons like another man; had been tricked by a fair face, and a false smile, and lying lips, and treacherous eyes, like even unto those at whom ha had been wont to make mock. Vanquished ? Not not quite!" he muttered between his teetjh, set hard on the amber mouthpiece. She don't know of this cursed folly. It'll be triy own fault if she ever does. It's all over now. She and I will never meet again. Bah! Am I a child, to be as weak as this ?" AndDar laughed bitterly. On a sudden his face changed, and, with a curse, he halted, and drove Lis heel savgely into the turf. Half-a-dozen paces from him, with its bcidle flung over a leafless branch, watching him out of its great, deep, eyes, stood a horse he knew only too well. It < was "Ravenawing." Guy Devereux's charger. The rider could not be far off. What was he doibg here ? The Don guessed easily enough, His right hand clenched, as though be would have liked to dash it in Devereux's face—this man, for whose sake Helen, his Helen, had stooped to false- hood and deceit—in a paroxysm or jealous rage worthy of the love-mania of a boy. That was soon over. Men who have lived bis life, tf^bey cant exercise, at least learn to keep in hand the devil they knew to be within them. And the look that was not good to see only just swept across "the Don's face, and left the bard smile a little, harder under the black moustache. But this time, at all events, he would meet her faee o face. He had not long to wait. Standing a little back from the winding pathway, hidden by the gnarled trunk of the king oak, already he could see the gleam of the white feather, as the wearer of the velvet toque he knew eo well came towards him, in close and confidential converse with Devereux the Plunger. He set his teeth hard, and stood motionless as the. as the trunk he leaned against. Bavenswing pricked his ears, and whinnied, aa his master came round the last turn of the path; and Dar lifted his eyes then and saw—what made him start and pale to the very lips. He saw the velvet toque, and the long white feather, and the long streamers floating behind but instead of Helen Treherne's fair hair, it was Flora Hoddesdon's dark braids that curled beneath it—her face, and not his cousin's, tha1, he looked upon. Laughing lightly at something Guy was saving to her, Flora passed by, and stood patting the horse's arching neck when the rider was in the saddle, and exchanging a tender adieu ere he rode away. Then, after one quick glance about her, Flora moved off in her turn, and Dar was alone with his discovery. The simple truth was plain at last. This was the shsdow his cynicfam and mistrust had let him make a reality; this was the miserable cause of the wrong he had done the woman he had learned to 10TO done, not so much by the words he had spoken, as by the thoughts he had thought of her. This wretched error was driving him from her now—had, perhaps, sundered them for ever. I don't think I need tell you all that passed through his mind as he walked back—all the feeling of self- reproach, regret, repentence, not unmingled with something akin to happiness. There was happiness for him at least in this, that Fée had never merited the ill he had dared think of her by word or deed; that she had been right, and he wrong. This much he would tell her before he left Laureston, and ask of her what it was his wont to ask of none—forgive- ness. He found her presently in the library, and alone. He opened the door so noiselessly that she never raised her head. She was sitting on a low seat before the flickering wood fire, half in the light, half in the shadow, bending a little forward, her chin resting on her hand. At her feet lay Dar's bloodhound, Odin," watch- ing her with loving, wistful eyes. The other end of the long oak-pannelled room, where Dar stood, was all in semi-darkness, and, by the gleam of the burning brands, he could see every detail of the picture before him. He could see the shimmering of Fee's golden hair as the light fell on it;, he could see the pale, sad look upon her fair face; the fitful flash of the opals in a ring, his gift, which she were upon the hand that rested on "Odin's" head. He saw and marked all this as he stopped a moment near the doorway, still and silent, fading by the keenness of his remorse, how great was the wrong he had done her, even in his love. But the bloodhound moved uneasily, conscious of his master's presence there; and Helen, roused from her reverie, turned and looked towards him. Then Dar came out of the darkness into the light, and she saw who it was. She rose hurriedly, as if to ge, while he was bend- ing over his dog, as though he had barely noticed her. Don't go. Fée I" Dar said, when she had moved a step or two from him. Don't run away from me I've something to tell you, if you will listen to me." The old name, the old tone. What did it mean ? She had stopped when be spoke, and waited, without a word, for him to go on. And he went on, and made his atonement—such atonement as he OOQId- and his confession unflinchingly, leaning his arm upon the high, carved mantlepiece, and with his eyes fixed upon her face. trying to read bis sentence there. And so Helen learned at last what had been keeping them so long asunder. Fée, can you forgive me ?" She answered him never a word, but she gave him her hand—the hand that wore the opal ring. Then Dar spoke again, with all the passion that was in him. And Fee learned something more— something that made full amends to her for all the misery of those last days. He was telling her—her hero, whom she thought to part from so miserably on the morrow— that be loved her; asking so eagerly, so passionately, with look and voice so changed she hardly knew him, if the could trust herself, after all, to him and his love for the time to come asking if he should go or stay. Slowly, as his strong right arm closed round and clasped her to him, the golden head sank down upon his shoulder, till her face, sad and pale no longer, was half hidden from him there; and, ar he bent over her, the answer to all his pleading came in these tow-whispered words— Stay, for me, Dar! I have loved you all my life And here, I think, had better end the story of the White Feather. Buy


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