ried from the eyes that were on mine in a thousand tones. I could trace
the play of her face but dimly by the light of the smoky lantern, but
her eyes I seemed to see bright and near. I had looked for scorn there,
and, it might be, amusement. I seemed to see (perhaps the imperfect
light played tricks), besides lure and raillery, reproach, sorrow, and,
most strange of all, a sort of envy. Then came a smile, and ever so
lightly her finger moved in beckoning. The song came no more through the
closed door: my ears were empty of it, but not my heart; there it
sounded still in its soft pleading cadence. Poor maid, whose lover left
her! Poor maid, poor maid! I looked full at Nell, but did not move. The
lids dropped over her eyes, and their lights went out. She turned and
walked slowly and alone along the corridor. I watched her going, yes,
wistfully I watched. But I did not follow, for the snatch of song rose
in my heart. There was a door at the end of the passage; she opened it
and passed through. For a moment it stood open, then a hand stole back
and slowly drew it close. It was shut. The click of the lock rang loud
and sharp through the silent house.

CHAPTER XX

THE VICAR'S PROPOSITION

I do not know how long I stood outside the door there in the passage.
After awhile I began to move softly to and fro, more than once reaching
the room where I was to sleep, but returning again to my old post. I was
loth to forsake it. A strange desire was on me. I wished that the door
would open, nay, to open it myself, and by my presence declare what was
now so plain to me. But to her it would not have been plain; for now I
was alone in the passage, and there was nothing to show the thing which
had come to me there, and there at last had left me. Yet it seemed
monstrous that she should not know, possible to tell her to-night,
certain that my shame-faced tongue would find no words to-morrow. It was
a thing that must be said while the glow and the charm of it were still
on me, or it would find no saying.

The light had burnt down very low, and gave forth a dim fitful glare,
hardly conquering the darkness. Now, again, I was standing still, lost
in my struggle. Presently, with glad amazement, as though there had
come an unlooked-for answer to my prayer, I heard a light step within.
The footfalls seemed to hesitate; then they came again, the bolt of the
door shot back, and a crack of faint light shewed. "Who's there?" asked
Barbara'