o say he's been talking to you in that way?' he cried
angrily.

Alice had spoken with thoughtless petulance. She hastened eagerly to
correct her error.

'As if I meant it! Don't be stupid, Dick. Of course he hasn't said a
word; I believe he's engaged to somebody; I thought so from something he
said a little while ago. The idea of me marrying a man like that!'

He examined her closely, and Alice was not afraid of telltale cheeks.

'Well, I can't think you'd be such a fool. If I thought there was any
danger of that, I'd soon stop it.'

'Would you, indeed! Why, that would be just the way to make me say I'd
have him. You'd have known that if only you read novels.'

'Novels!' he exclaimed, with profound contempt. 'Don't go playing with
that kind of thing; it's dangerous. At least you can wait a week or two
longer. I've only let him see so much of you because I felt sure you'd
got common sense.'

'Of course I have. But what's to happen in a week or two?'

'I should think you might come to Wanley for a little. We shall see. If
mother had only 'Arry in the house, she might come back to her senses.'

'Shall I tell her you've been to London?'

'You can if you like,' he replied, with a show of indifference.

Jane Vine was buried on Sunday afternoon, her sisters alone accompanying
her to the grave. Alice had with difficulty obtained admission to
her mother's room, and it seemed to her that the news she brought
was received with little emotion. The old woman had an air of dogged
weariness; she did not look her daughter in the face, and spoke only in
monosyllables. Her face was yellow, her cheeks like wrinkled parchment.

Manor Park Cemetery lies in the remote East End, and gives
sleeping-places to the inhabitants of a vast district. There Jane's
parents lay, not in a grave to themselves, but buried amidst the
nameless dead, in that part of the ground reserved for those who can
purchase no more than a portion in the foss which is filled when its
occupants reach statutable distance from the surface. The regions around
were then being built upon for the first time; the familiar streets of
pale, damp brick were stretching here and there, continuing London,
much like the spreading of a disease. Epping Forest is near at hand, and
nearer the dreary expanse of Wanstead Flats.

Not grief, but chill desolation makes this cemetery its abode. A country
churchyard touches the tenderest memories, and softens the heart with
longing