is position, he tried
to convince himself that once again he had been led astray after beauty
and goodness which existed only in his imagination, that in losing Adela
he only dismissed one more illusion. Such comfort was unsubstantial;
he was, in truth, consumed in wretchedness at the thought that she once
might easily have been his, and that he had passed her by. What matter
whether we love a reality or a dream, if the love drive us to frenzy?
Yet how could he renew his relations with her? Even if no actual
engagement bound her, she must be prejudiced against him by stories
which would make it seem an insult if he addressed her. And if the
engagement really existed, what shadow of excuse had he for troubling
her with his love?

When he entered his mother's room in the morning, Mrs. Eldon took a
small volume from the table at her side.

'I found this a few weeks ago among the books you left with me,' she
said. 'How long have you had it, Hubert?'

It was a copy of the 'Christian Year,' and writing on the fly-leaf
showed that it belonged, or had once belonged, to Adela Waltham.

Hubert regarded it with surprise.

'It was lent to me a year ago,' he said. 'I took it away with me. I had
forgotten that I had it.'

The circumstances under which it had been lent to him came back very
clearly now. It was after that visit to his friend which had come so
unhappily between him and Adela. When he went to bid her good-bye he
found her alone, and she was reading this book. She spoke of it, and, in
surprise that he had never read it, begged him to take it to Oxford.

'I have another copy,' Adela said. 'You can return that any time.'

The time had only now come. Hubert resolved to take the book to Wanley
in the evening; if no other means offered, Mr. Wyvern would return it to
the owner. Might he enclose a note? Instead of that, he wrote out
from memory two of his own sonnets, the best of those he had recently
composed under the influence of the 'Vita Nuova,' and shut them between
the pages. Then he made the book into a parcel and addressed it.

He started for his walk at the same hour as on the evening before. There
was frost in the air, and already the stars were bright. As he drew
near to Wanley, the road was deserted; his footfall was loud on the hard
earth. The moon began to show her face over the dark top of Stanbury
Hill, and presently he saw by the clear rays that the figure of a woman
was a few yards ahead of him; he w