arelessly flung down across a
chair. A turnpike ticket fell out of the breast-pocket, and she saw
that it had been issued at Middleton Gate. He had therefore visited
Middleton the previous night, a distance of at least five-and-thirty
miles on horseback, there and back.

During the day she made some inquiries, and learned for the first time
that Mrs. Charmond was staying at Middleton Abbey. She could not
resist an inference--strange as that inference was.

A few days later he prepared to start again, at the same time and in
the same direction. She knew that the state of the cottager who lived
that way was a mere pretext; she was quite sure he was going to Mrs.
Charmond. Grace was amazed at the mildness of the passion which the
suspicion engendered in her. She was but little excited, and her
jealousy was languid even to death. It told tales of the nature of her
affection for him. In truth, her antenuptial regard for Fitzpiers had
been rather of the quality of awe towards a superior being than of
tender solicitude for a lover. It had been based upon mystery and
strangeness--the mystery of his past, of his knowledge, of his
professional skill, of his beliefs. When this structure of ideals was
demolished by the intimacy of common life, and she found him as merely
human as the Hintock people themselves, a new foundation was in demand
for an enduring and stanch affection--a sympathetic interdependence,
wherein mutual weaknesses were made the grounds of a defensive
alliance. Fitzpiers had furnished none of that single-minded
confidence and truth out of which alone such a second union could
spring; hence it was with a controllable emotion that she now watched
the mare brought round.

"I'll walk with you to the hill if you are not in a great hurry," she
said, rather loath, after all, to let him go.

"Do; there's plenty of time," replied her husband. Accordingly he led
along the horse, and walked beside her, impatient enough nevertheless.
Thus they proceeded to the turnpike road, and ascended Rub-Down Hill to
the gate he had been leaning over when she surprised him ten days
before. This was the end of her excursion. Fitzpiers bade her adieu
with affection, even with tenderness, and she observed that he looked
weary-eyed.

"Why do you go to-night?" she said. "You have been called up two
nights in succession already."

"I must go," he answered, almost gloomily. "Don't wait up for me."
With these words he mou