had been on the verge of a precipice, and had been warned to
draw back only just in time. Every second showed him more distinctly
what his duty was. He experienced a sensation of thankfulness that he
had not spoken definitely on Saturday evening. His instinct had guided
him aright; Jane was still too young to be called upon solemnly to
decide her whole future.

'That, too, had better wait, Mr. Snowdon,' he said, after a pause of a
minute. 'I should like her to know everything before I speak to her in
that way. In a year it will be time enough.'

Michael regarded him thoughtfully.

'Perhaps you are right. I wish you knew Mr. Percival; but there is
time, there is time. He still thinks I shall be persuaded to alter my
plans. That night you came to Hanover Street and found me away, he took
me to see a lady who works among the poor in Clerkenwell; she knew me
by name, because Mr. Percival had given her money from me to use, but
we'd never seen each other till then. He wants me to ask her opinion
about Jane.'

'Has he spoken of her to the lady, do you think?'

'Oh no!' replied the other, with perfect confidence. 'He has promised
me to keep all that a secret as long as I wish. The lady--her name is
Miss Lant--seemed all that my friend said she was, and perhaps Jane
might do well to make her acquaintance some day; but that mustn't be
till Jane knows and approves the purpose of my life and hers. The one
thing that troubles me still, Sidney, is--her father. It's hard that I
can't be sure whether my son will be a help or a hindrance. I must
wait, and try to know him better.'

The conversation had so wearied Michael, that in returning to the house
he had to lean on his companion's arm. Sidney was silent, and yielded,
he scarce knew why, to a mood of depression. When Jane returned from
Maldon in the evening, and he heard her happy voice as the children ran
out to welcome her, there was a heaviness at his heart. Perhaps it came
only of hope deferred.

CHAPTER XXI

DEATH THE RECONCILER

There is no accounting for tastes. Sidney Kirkwood, spending his Sunday
evening in a garden away there in the chaw-bacon regions of Essex,
where it was so deadly quiet that you could hear the flutter of a
bird's wing or the rustle of a leaf, not once only congratulated
himself on his good fortune; yet at that hour he might have stood, as
so often, listening to the eloquence, the wit, the wisdom, that give
proud distinction to the name