the loneliness of the gray old tower, and to look forth, hoping to
see the grass-green robe gleam again against the setting sun, and to
hear the silver bells chime once more in the still evening air.
Vain--worse than vain. With stiffened limbs and grizzled hair, we are
not worth beguiling.

This is essentially a masculine illustration, and only applies to Cecil
Tresilyan thus far. She was sensible of the influence that strengthened
its hold upon her every day, and did not now wish or try to resist it,
but she grew proportionately doubtful and uneasy about the event. A
feeling, very strange and new to one of a temperament like hers, began
to creep over her now and then. At such times she owned that her eyes
were the more eagerly and steadfastly fixed on the Present, because they
did not dare to look into the Future. Yet, as far as she knew, there was
no ground for much apprehension.

It is always so. Only when we are carrying something rare and precious
do we appreciate the possible perils of the road. How much steeper the
hills are now, how much deeper and darker the ravines, how much more
frequent the crags that might so easily conceal a marauder, than when we
passed them some months ago chanting the reckless roundel of the _vacuus
viator_.

We said, you remember, before, that Miss Tresilyan had one subject of
self-reproach, for which she had never gained her own absolution. The
whispers that had never been quite silenced began to make themselves
heard unpleasantly often, and now they just hinted at Retribution. As
our poor Cecil must come to confession some time or another, it seems to
me this is a convenient season.

At the country-house where she was spending Christmas, three years
before the date of our story, she met Mark Waring. She knew his
antecedents: how, when sudden troubles came upon his family, he gave up
diplomacy, which he had entered upon, and took up the law--hating it
cordially--simply because a fair opening was given him there of securing
to his mother and sisters something better than bread. He never
pretended to feel the slightest interest in his profession, but went on
slaving at it resolutely and successfully. He made no merit of it
either, but always spoke, and I believe thought of it, as the merest
matter of course--the right thing to do under the circumstance. There
was a hardihood of principle about all this which Cecil rather admired;
and his frank, bold bearing, and simple, straightforw