hrough
the whole of the night of the question you put to me last evening and
of my answer. That answer, as an honest woman, I had no right to
give.

"It is my nature--perhaps all women's--to love refinement of mind and
manners; but even more than this, to be ever fascinated with the idea
of surroundings more elegant and pleasing than those which have been
customary. And you praised me, and praise is life to me. It was
alone my sensations at these things which prompted my reply. Ambition
and vanity they would be called; perhaps they are so.

"After this explanation I hope you will generously allow me to
withdraw the answer I too hastily gave.

"And one more request. To keep the meeting of last night, and all
that passed between us there, for ever a secret. Were it to become
known, it would utterly blight the happiness of a trusting and
generous man, whom I love still, and shall love always.--Yours
sincerely,

"FANCY DAY.

The last written communication that ever passed from the vicar to Fancy,
was a note containing these words only:

"Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you."

PART THE FIFTH: CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I: 'THE KNOT THERE'S NO UNTYING'

The last day of the story is dated just subsequent to that point in the
development of the seasons when country people go to bed among nearly
naked trees, are lulled to sleep by a fall of rain, and awake next
morning among green ones; when the landscape appears embarrassed with the
sudden weight and brilliancy of its leaves; when the night-jar comes and
strikes up for the summer his tune of one note; when the apple-trees have
bloomed, and the roads and orchard-grass become spotted with fallen
petals; when the faces of the delicate flowers are darkened, and their
heads weighed down, by the throng of honey-bees, which increase their
humming till humming is too mild a term for the all-pervading sound; and
when cuckoos, blackbirds, and sparrows, that have hitherto been merry and
respectful neighbours, become noisy and persistent intimates.

The exterior of Geoffrey Day's house in Yalbury Wood appeared exactly as
was usual at that season, but a frantic barking of the dogs at the back
told of unwonted movements somewhere within. Inside the door the eyes
beheld a gathering, which was a rarity indeed for the dwelling of the
solitary wood-steward and keeper.

About the room were sitting and