had he done it? The explanation was as strange as
the things that he invoked it to explain. Still rubbing his hands, palm
against palm, to and fro, he said very slowly, with wonder and
reluctance:

"I was carried away. I was carried away by--by romance."

The word made him feel a fool. Yet what other word was there for the
overwhelming unreasoning feeling that at the cost of everything the
Tristrams, mother and son, must keep Blent, the son living and the
mother dead, that the son must dwell there and the spirit of the mother
be about him she loved in the spot that she had graced? It was very rank
romance indeed--no other word for it! And--wildest paradox--it all came
out of editing Josiah Cholderton's Journal.

Before he had made any progress in unravelling his skein of perplexities
he saw Janie coming across the lawn. She took the chair her father had
left and seemed to take her father's mood with it; the same oppressive
silence settled on her. Neeld broke it this time.

"You don't look very merry, Miss Janie," he said, smiling at her and
achieving a plausible jocularity.

"Why should I, Mr Neeld?" She glanced at him. "Oh, has father told you
anything?"

"Yes, that you're engaged. You know how truly I desire your happiness,
my dear." With a pretty courtesy the old man took her hand and kissed
it, baring his gray hair the while.

"You're very, very kind. Yes, I've promised to marry Harry Tristram. Not
yet, you know. And it isn't to be announced. But I've promised."

He stole a glance at her, and then another. She did not look merry
indeed. Neeld knew his ignorance of feminine things, and made guesses
with proper diffidence; but he certainly fancied she had been crying--or
very near it--not so long ago. Yet the daughter of William Iver was
sensible and not given to silly tears.

"I think I've done right," she said--as she had said when she wrote to
Mina. "Everybody will be pleased. Father's very pleased." Suddenly she
put out her hand and took hold of his, giving it a tight grip. "Oh, but,
Mr Neeld, I've made somebody so unhappy."

"I dare say, my dear, I dare say. I was a young fellow once. I dare
say."

"And he says nothing about it. He wished me joy--and he does wish me joy
too. I've no right to talk to you, to tell you, or anything. I don't
believe people think girls ever mind making men unhappy; but they do."

"If they like the men?" This suggestion at least was not too difficult
for him.

"Yes, w