ous did not love the woman who caused it.

"No," she said, "I do not think we can sit. But still I like to
be here with you. All that some day will be your own." Then she
stretched her hands out to the far view.

"Some of it, I suppose. I don't think it is all ours. As for that, if
we cared for extent of acres, one ought to go to Barsetshire."

"Is that larger?"

"Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being
there. The rental is very well."

"And the borough," she said, leaning on his arm and looking up into
his face. "What a happy fellow you ought to be."

"Bar Tifto,--and Mr. Jawstock."

"You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles very easily."

"Thanks to the governor."

"Yes, indeed. I do love your father so dearly."

"So do I--rather."

"May I tell you something about him?" As she asked the question she
was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm, with her left
hand crossed upon her right. Had others been there, of course she
would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that,--and he knew it
too. Of course there was something in it of declared affection,--of
that kind of love which most of us have been happy enough to give and
receive, without intending to show more than true friendship will
allow at special moments.

"Don't tell me anything about him I shan't like to hear."

"Ah;--that is so hard to know. I wish you would like to hear it."

"What can it be?"

"I cannot tell you now."

"Why not? And why did you offer?"

"Because-- Oh, Silverbridge."

He certainly as yet did not understand it. It had never occurred to
him that she would know what were his father's wishes. Perhaps he was
slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what this was about
his father. "What can you tell me about him, that I should not like
to hear?"

"You do not know? Oh, Silverbridge, I think you know." Then there
came upon him a glimmering of the truth. "You do know." And she stood
apart looking him full in the face.

"I do not know what you can have to tell me."

"No;--no. It is not I that should tell you. But yet it is so.
Silverbridge, what did you say to me when you came to me that morning
in the Square?"

"What did I say?"

"Was I not entitled to think that you--loved me?" To this he had
nothing to reply, but stood before her silent and frowning. "Think of
it, Silverbridge. Was it not so? And because I did not at once tell
you all the truth, because I did not