ghly understood; why did he not go? His former
many sweet visits had created hopes which were all but certain.
He had said nothing of love; but coming there as he had come, and
gazing at her as he had gazed, Adela could not doubt but that she was
loved. That was all now set at rest; but why should he remain there,
breaking her heart with allusions to his own past tenderness?

"You must put up with the world as you find it, Mr. Wilkinson."

"Oh, yes; of course. But when one has had such happy dreams, the
waking reality, you know, does make one sad."

"You are too happy in your friends and your position to be an object
of pity. How many clergymen are there of your age who would look upon
your lot as almost beyond their ambition! How many men are there
with mothers and sisters for whom they cannot provide! How many who
have made rash marriages which have led to no happiness! Surely,
Mr. Wilkinson, with you there is more cause for thankfulness than
for complaint!" And thus, as it was necessary that she should say
something, she moralized to him--very wisely.

"It is all true," said he; "and perhaps it is for the best. I might
probably have been made more wretched in another way."

"Yes; very likely." Oh, Adela, Adela!

"I begin to know that a man should not be sanguine. I have always
hoped for more than I have had a right to expect, and, therefore, I
have always been disappointed. It was so at school, and at Oxford,
and it is so now: it shows how true it is that a man should not look
for his happiness here. Well; good-bye, Adela. I see that you think I
am wrong to have any regrets."

"Useless regrets are always foolish: we laugh at children who cry for
what is quite out of their reach."

"Yes; and you laugh at me. I dare say you are right."

"No; do not say that, Mr. Wilkinson. I have never laughed at you.
But--" She did not wish to be actually unkind to him, though he had
been so cruel to her.

At last he went. They shook hands with each other in their accustomed
manner, but Wilkinson felt that he missed something from her touch,
some warmth from the soft pressure, some scintillation of sympathy
which such last moments of his visits had usually communicated to
him. Yes; there was much to miss.

As he went back along the river his heart was sad within him. He
had made up his mind to give up Adela Gauntlet, but he had not made
up his mind to discover that she did not care for him--that she was
indifferent to hi