r for that?'

'How many deaths?' asked the squire abruptly, touching Elsmere's arm,
and so reminding Robert of his existence. 'Meyrick spoke of deaths.'

He stood near the door, but his eyes were fixed on the little bed, on
the half-swooning child.

'Seven,' said Robert, turning upon him. 'Five of diphtheria, two of
fever. That little one will go too.'

'Horrible!' said the squire under his breath, and then moved to the
door.

The two men went downstairs in perfect silence. Below, in the
convalescent room, the children were capable of smiles, and of quick
coquettish beckonings to the rector to come and make game with them as
usual. But he could only kiss his hand to them and escape, for there was
more to do.

He took the squire through all the remaining fever cases, and into
several of the worst cottages--Milsom's among them--and when it was all
over they emerged into the lane again, near the bridge. There was still
a crowd of children and women hanging about, watching eagerly for the
squire, whom many of them had never seen at all, and about whom various
myths had gradually formed themselves in the countryside. The squire
walked away from them hurriedly, followed by Robert, and again they
halted on the centre of the bridge. A horse led by a groom was being
walked up and down on a flat piece of road just beyond.

It was an awkward moment. Robert never forgot the thrill of it, or the
association of wintry sunshine streaming down upon a sparkling world of
ice and delicate woodland and foam-flecked river.

The squire turned towards him irresolutely; his sharply-cut wrinkled
lips opening and closing again. Then he held out his hand: 'Mr. Elsmere,
I did you a wrong--I did this place and its people a wrong. In my view,
regret for the past is useless. Much of what has occurred here is
plainly irreparable; I will think what can be done for the future. As
for my relation to you, it rests with you to say whether it can be
amended. I recognise that you have just cause of complaint.'

What invincible pride there was in the man's very surrender! But Elsmere
was not repelled by it. He knew that in their hour together the squire
had _felt_. His soul had lost its bitterness. The dead and their wrong
were with God.

He took the squire's outstretched hand, grasping it cordially, a pure
unworldly dignity in his whole look and bearing.

'Let us be friends, Mr. Wendover. It will be a great comfort to us--my
wife and me. Will y