those that are some good in the world that die. Good-bye,
Lady Staveley. I'll come back next Christmas;--that is if it isn't
all settled before then; but I know it will be no good." Then he got
on his horse and rode very slowly home, along the high road to The
Cleeve.

Lady Staveley did not go in among the other ladies till luncheon was
announced, and when she did so, she said no word about her visitor.
Nevertheless it was known by them all that Peregrine Orme had been
there. "Ah, that's Mr. Orme's roan-coloured horse," Sophia Furnival
had said, getting up and thrusting her face close to the drawing-room
window. It was barely possible to see a portion of the road from the
drawing-room; but Sophia's eyes had been sharp enough to see that
portion.

"A groom has probably come over with a note," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"Very likely," said Sophia. But they all knew from her voice that the
rider was no groom, and that she did not intend it to be thought that
he was a groom. Madeline said not a word, and kept her countenance
marvellously; but she knew well enough that Peregrine had been with
her mother; and guessed also why he had been there.

Madeline had asked herself some serious questions, and had answered
them also, since that conversation which she had had with her father.
He had assured her that he desired only her happiness; and though in
so saying he had spoken nothing of marriage, she had well understood
that he had referred to her future happiness,--at that time when by
her own choice she should be leaving her father's house. And now
she asked herself boldly in what way might that happiness be best
secured. Hitherto she had refrained from any such home questions.
Latterly, within the last week or two, ideas of what love meant had
forced themselves upon her mind. How could it have been otherwise?
But she had never dared to tell herself either that she did love, or
that she did not. Mr. Orme had come to her with his offer, plainly
asking her for the gift of her heart, and she had immediately been
aware that any such gift on her part was impossible,--any such gift
in his favour. She had known without a moment's thought that there
was no room for hesitation. Had he asked her to take wings and fly
away with him over the woods, the feat would not have been to her
more impossible than that of loving him as his wife. Yet she liked
him,--liked him much in these latter days, because he had been so
good to Felix Graham. Wh