ears. I believe I should find it hard to leave Dunfield.'

Emily smiled gently.

'I wonder,' he pursued, 'whether you have the kind of feeling that came
to me just then? It struck me that, suppose anything happened that would
enable us to go and live in another place, there would be a sort of
ingratitude, something like a shabby action, in turning one's back on
the old spot. I don't like to feel unkind even to a town.'

The girl glanced at him with meaning eyes. Here was an instance of the
sympathetic relations of which she had spoken to Wilfrid; in these words
was disclosed the origin of the deepest sensibilities of her own nature.

They pursued their walk, across the common and into a tree-shaded lane.
Emily tried to believe that this at length was really the country; there
were no houses in view, meadows lay on either hand, the leafage was
thick. But it was not mere prejudice which saw in every object a
struggle with hard conditions, a degeneration into coarseness, a blight.
The quality of the earth was probably poor to begin with; the herbage
seemed of gross fibre; one would not risk dipping a finger in the stream
which trickled by the roadside, it suggested an impure source. And
behold, what creatures are these coming along the lane, where only
earth-stained rustics should be met? Two colliers, besmutted wretches,
plodding homeward from the 'pit' which is half a mile away. Yes, their
presence was in keeping with the essential character of the scene.

'One might have had a harder life,' mused Mr. Hood aloud, when the
pitmen were gone by.

'I think there's a fallacy in that,' replied Emily. 'Their life is
probably not hard at all. I used to feel that pity, but I have reasoned
myself out of it. They are really happy, for they know nothing of their
own degradation.'

'By the bye,' said her father presently, 'how is young Mr. Athel, the
young fellow who had to come home from college?'

'He is quite well again, I think,' was Emily's reply.

'I suppose, poor fellow, he has a very weak constitution?'

'Oh no, I think not.'

'What is he studying for? Going into the Church?'

Emily laughed; it was a relief to do so.

'Isn't it strange,' she said, 'how we construct an idea of an unknown
person from some circumstance or piece of description? I see exactly
what your picture of Mr. Athel is: a feeble and amiable young man, most
likely with the shocking voice with which curates sometimes read the
lessons--'

She