ed no more.

"You shouldn't kiss him unless you forgive," I said.

She kissed him again and drew the sheet over his face.

"He must have been a fine man. I forgive. Come, let's go."

Outside, the world was with us--and I wondering whether that was what I
had really said.

At least she seemed to bear me no ill-will. "Are you free to come for a
walk?" she asked. "I should like some fresh air."

"Would you like to see the gardens?"

"No--that means pottering. Take me for a good spin."

By a happy thought I remembered Tor Hill and took her there. The hill
lies at the extremity of the Priory park, looking down on the road which
separates our dominions from the Fillingford country; beyond the road
the Manor itself can be seen by glimpses through the woods which
surround it. Catsford lies in the valley to the left; away to the right,
but not in sight, lay Oxley Lodge, and Overington Grange, the seat of
Sir John Aspenick. Here she could take a bird's-eye view of her position
and that of her nearest neighbors.

"I'm glad to see Fillingford," she remarked. "My father mentioned it--in
the earlier part of that letter. He said that he had wanted to buy it,
but Lord Fillingford couldn't or wouldn't sell."

"His son's consent was necessary--that's the present man--and he
wouldn't give it. Indeed the story runs that he hated Mr. Driver for
trying to buy."

She seemed to take as careful a view of Fillingford Manor as the
distance and the trees allowed.

"My father seems to have been sorry he couldn't buy it. He seemed to
think it might still be sold."

"Surely you've got enough! And, for my part, I should much prefer the
Priory. It's muggy down there in the valley--though I believe it's a
very fine house."

"You've not been there?"

"No. We of the Priory have had small dealings with Fillingford lately.
We've kept up the forms of civility--but it's been very distant.
Underneath, there's been a kind of silent feud--well, more or less
silent; but I daresay that'll be all over now."

"My father wrote 'Possibly you in your way may succeed better than I in
mine.'"

"Fillingford wouldn't sell. He's hard up, but he can get along. And
there's always the chance of a rich marriage for his son--or even for
himself."

I really spoke without any thought of a personal reference, but I
perceived, directly afterward, that I might well seem to have made one;
a marriage with Miss Driver would be undoubtedly rich. She gave no sign,