marry him. He
can leave home at once and travel as proposed. I have written to him
to this effect. I don't want any victuals, so don't wait dinner for
me.

Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine's
mortification, though he did not know its entire cause. He had lately
foreseen something of this sort as possible.

'It serves me right,' he thought, as he trotted homeward. 'It was
absurd--wicked of me to lead her on so. The sacrifice would have been
too great--too cruel!' And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed
with indignation every time he said to himself, 'She is ashamed of me!'

On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his--a
stock-dealer--in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged a few words. A
part of the dealer's conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.

'I've had occasion to call on Squire Everard,' the former said; 'but he
couldn't see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he
has heard.'

Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering. He had
new and startling matter for thought as soon as he got there. The
Squire's note had arrived. At first he could not credit its import; then
he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer's contempt
behind the words, and understood that the letter was written as by a man
hemmed into a corner. Christine was defiantly--insultingly--hurled at
his head. He was accepted because he was so despised.

And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers! Now he was
reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the
eyes of Nicholas fixed on Christine as on an angel when she passed:
'Better a little fire to warm 'ee than a great one to burn 'ee. No good
can come of throwing your heart there.' He went into the mead, sat down,
and asked himself four questions:

1. How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even in his
absence, without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?

2. Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her
family also, and her own consequent misery?

3. Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?

4. Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and sent them
off to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one of her gentle
nurture likely to be as the last?

In short, whatever they should embark in together would be crue