to
himself than to Advena.

Her thought told him bitterly: "I am afraid it is the only thing you can
do with it," but something else came to her lips.

"I have not congratulated you. I am not sure," she went on, with
astonishing candour, "whether I can. But I wish you happiness with all
my heart. Are you happy now?"

He turned his great dark eyes on her. "I am as happy, I dare say, as I
have any need to be."

"But you are happier since your letter came?"

"No," he said. The simple word fell on her heart, and she forbore.

They went on again in silence until they arrived at a place from which
they saw the gleam of the river and the line of the hills beyond. Advena
stopped.

"We came here once before together--in the spring. Do you remember?" she
asked.

"I remember very well." She had turned, and he with her. They stood
together with darkness about them, through which they could just see
each other's faces.

"It was spring then, and I went back alone. You are still living up that
street? Good night, then, please. I wish again--to go back--alone."

He looked at her for an instant in dumb bewilderment, though her words
were simple enough. Then as she made a step away from him he caught her
hand.

"Advena," he faltered, "what has happened to us? This time I cannot let
you."

CHAPTER XIX

"Lorne," said Dora Milburn, in her most animated manner, "who do you
think is coming to Elgin? Your London friend, Mr Hesketh! He's going to
stay with the Emmetts, and Mrs Emmett is perfectly distracted; she says
he's accustomed to so much, she doesn't know how he will put up with
their plain way of living. Though what she means by that, with late
dinner and afternoon tea every day of her life, is more than I know."

"Why, that's splendid!" replied Lorne. "Good old Hesketh! I knew he
thought of coming across this fall, but the brute hasn't written to
me. We'll have to get him over to our place. When he gets tired of
the Emmetts' plain ways he can try ours--they're plainer. You'll like
Hesketh; he's a good fellow, and more go-ahead than most of them."

"I don't think I should ask him to stay if I were you, Lorne. Your
mother will never consent to change her hours for meals. I wouldn't
dream of asking an Englishman to stay if I couldn't give him late
dinner; they think so much of it. It's the trial of Mother's life that
Father will not submit to it. As a girl she was used to nothing else.
Afternoon tea we do have,