red him when he was angry with her. It
was growing dark as they went home, and the tears came into her eyes and
the ball rose in her throat, and her lips quivered. She went back--does
a woman ever forget them?--to the hours of passionate protestation before
marriage, to the walks together when he caught up her poor phrases and
refined them, and helped her to see herself, and tried also to learn what
few things she had to teach. It was all the worse because she still
loved him so dearly, and felt that behind the veil was the same face, but
she could not tear the veil away. Perhaps, as they grew older, matters
might become worse, and they might have to travel together estranged down
the long, weary path to death. Death! She did not desire to leave him,
but she would have lain down in peace to die that moment if he could be
made to see her afterwards as she knew she was--at least in her love for
him. But then she thought what suffering the remembrance of herself
would cost him, and she wished to live. He felt that she moved her hand
to her pocket, and he knew why it went there. He pitied her, but he
pitied himself more, and though her tears wrought on him sufficiently to
prevent any further cruelty, he did not repent.

CHAPTER VIII

Mrs. Cardew met Catharine two or three times accidentally within the next
fortnight. There were Dorcas meetings and meetings of all kinds at which
the young women at the Limes were expected to assist. One afternoon,
after tea, the room being hot, two or three of the company had gone out
into the garden to work. Catharine and Mrs. Cardew sat by themselves at
one corner, where the ground rose a little, and a seat had been placed
under a large ash tree. From that point St. Mary's spire was visible,
about half a mile away in the west, rising boldly, confidently, one might
say, into the sky, as if it dared to claim that it too, although on earth
and finite, could match itself against the infinite heaven above. On
this particular evening the spire was specially obvious and attractive,
for it divided the sunset clouds, standing out black against the long,
narrow interspaces of tender green which lay between. It was one of
those evenings which invite confidence, when people cannot help drawing
nearer than usual to one another.

"Is it not beautiful, Miss Furze?"

"Beautiful; the spire makes it so lovely."

"I wonder why."

"I am sure I do not know; but it is so."

"Cathar