ir, to which their owner's possession of a
hidden mystery added a deeper tinge of romance. To some extent--so
soon does womanly interest take a solicitous turn--she felt herself
responsible for his safe conduct. They breakfasted before daylight;
Mr. Swancourt, being more and more taken with his guest's ingenuous
appearance, having determined to rise early and bid him a friendly
farewell. It was, however, rather to the vicar's astonishment, that he
saw Elfride walk in to the breakfast-table, candle in hand.

Whilst William Worm performed his toilet (during which performance
the inmates of the vicarage were always in the habit of waiting with
exemplary patience), Elfride wandered desultorily to the summer house.
Stephen followed her thither. The copse-covered valley was visible from
this position, a mist now lying all along its length, hiding the stream
which trickled through it, though the observers themselves were in clear
air.

They stood close together, leaning over the rustic balustrading which
bounded the arbour on the outward side, and formed the crest of a steep
slope beneath Elfride constrainedly pointed out some features of the
distant uplands rising irregularly opposite. But the artistic eye was,
either from nature or circumstance, very faint in Stephen now, and he
only half attended to her description, as if he spared time from some
other thought going on within him.

'Well, good-bye,' he said suddenly; 'I must never see you again, I
suppose, Miss Swancourt, in spite of invitations.'

His genuine tribulation played directly upon the delicate chords of
her nature. She could afford to forgive him for a concealment or two.
Moreover, the shyness which would not allow him to look her in the face
lent bravery to her own eyes and tongue.

'Oh, DO come again, Mr. Smith!' she said prettily.

'I should delight in it; but it will be better if I do not.'

'Why?'

'Certain circumstances in connection with me make it undesirable. Not on
my account; on yours.'

'Goodness! As if anything in connection with you could hurt me,' she
said with serene supremacy; but seeing that this plan of treatment was
inappropriate, she tuned a smaller note. 'Ah, I know why you will
not come. You don't want to. You'll go home to London and to all the
stirring people there, and will never want to see us any more!'

'You know I have no such reason.'

'And go on writing letters to the lady you are engaged to, just as
before.'

'Wha