ad been her last expedient to
revive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire.
Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into life
and vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, that
had beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that his
heart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for all
that, she was not minded to let him go free--her wild, ungoverned passion
for him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be hers
willingly, he should be hers by force.

"Surely," she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard to
consent to--you who--who love me?"

He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling of
gentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, aroused
by her gentle words.

"Say no more, Helen--you are too good--too generous to me. It shall be as
you say."

And then he left, thankful to escape from her presence and to be alone
again with his thoughts in the raw darkness of the November evening.

CHAPTER IV.

THE LAY RECTOR.

Or art thou complaining
Of thy lowly lot,
And, thine own disdaining,
Dost ask what thou hast not?
Of the future dreaming,
Weary of the past,
For the present scheming
All but what thou hast.

L. E. Landon.

In the churchyard at Sutton-in-the-Wold was a monument which, for
downright ugliness and bad taste, could hardly find its fellow in the
whole county. It was a wonderful and marvellous structure of gray
granite, raised upon a flight of steps, and consisted of an object like
unto Cleopatra's Needle surmounting a family tea-urn. It had been erected
by one Nathaniel Crupps, a well-to-do farmer in the parish, upon the
death of his second wife. The first partner of his affections had been
previously interred also in the same spot, but it was not until the death
of the second Mrs. Crupps, who was undoubtedly his favourite, that
Nathaniel bethought him of immortalizing the memory of both ladies by one
bold stroke of fancy, as exemplified by this portentous granite
monstrosity. On it the virtues of both wives were recorded, as it was
touchingly and naively stated, by their "sorrowing husband with strict
impartiality."

It was upon this graceful structure that Vera Nevill leant one foggy
morning in the first week of November, and surveyed the church in front
of her. She was not engaged in any sentimenta