uessing the wrong of which her mother had been guilty, Diana had been
conscious of an underlying want of harmony somewhere. She did not know
where it was; it was in the air; for nature's subtle sympathies find
their way and know their ground far beyond the sphere of sense or
reason. Something adverse and something sinister she had vaguely felt
in her mother's manner, without having the least clue to any possible
cause or motive. Suspicion was the last thing to occur to Diana's
nature; so she suspected nothing; nevertheless felt the grating and now
and then the jar of their two spirits one against the other. It was
dimly connected with Evan, too, in her mind, without knowing why; she
thought, blaming herself for the thought, that Mrs. Starling would not
have been so determinately eager to get her married to Will Flandin if
Evan Knowlton had never been thought to fancy her. This was a perfectly
unreasoning conclusion in Diana's mind; she could give no account of
it; but as little could she get rid of it; and it made her mother's
ways lately hard to bear. The minister, she knew instinctively, would
not let a rough wind blow on her face; at his side neither criticism
nor any sort of human annoyance could reach her; she would have only
her own deep heart-sorrow to bear on to the end. But what sort of
justice was this towards him? Diana lifted her head, which had been
sunk in musing, and looked round. She had heard nothing for a while;
now the swirl and rush of the storm were the first thing that struck
her senses; and the first thought, that no getting away was possible
yet; then she glanced at Mr. Masters. He was there near her, just as
usual, looking at her quietly.

"Mr. Masters," she burst forth, "you are very good!"

"That is right," he said, with a sort of dry comicality which belonged
to him, "I hope you will never change your opinion."

"But," said Diana, withdrawing her eyes in some confusion, "I think I
am not. I think I am doing wrong."

"In what?"

"In letting you say what you said a little while ago. You have a heart,
and a big one. I have not any heart at all. I can't give you what you
would give me; I haven't got it to give. I never shall have anything to
give."

"The case being so as you put it," said the minister quite quietly,
"what then? You cannot change the facts. I cannot take back what I have
given; it was given long ago, Diana, and remains yours. The least you
can do, is to let me have what is