g up eagerly
into his face. But he made her no answer, nor gave her any sign. His
heart was very tender at that moment towards Rachel, but there was
that in him of the stubbornness of manhood which would not let him
make any sign of his tenderness.

"I will not press you to say anything, Mr. Rowan," she continued,
"and I am much obliged to you for having listened to me. I've known
Rachel Ray for many years, and that must be my excuse."

"No excuse is wanting," he said. "If I do not say anything it is not
because I am offended. There are things on which a man should not
allow himself to speak without considering them."

"Oh, certainly. Come; shall we go back to them at the bathing-house?
They'll think we've lost ourselves."

Thus Mrs. Cornbury said the words which she had desired to speak on
Rachel Ray's behalf.

When they reached the Grange there were still two hours left before
the time of dressing for dinner should come, and during these hours
Luke returned by himself to the Cleeves. He escaped from his host,
and retraced his steps, and on reaching the river sat himself down on
the margin, and looked into the cool dark running water. Had he been
severe to Rachel? He would answer no such question when asked by Mrs.
Cornbury, but he was very desirous of answering it to himself. The
women at the cottage had doubted him,--Mrs. Ray and her daughter,
with perhaps that other daughter of whom he had only heard; and he
had resolved that they should see him no more and hear of him no more
till there should be no further room for doubt. Then he would show
himself again at the cottage, and again ask Rachel to be his wife.
There was some manliness in this; but there was also a hardness in
his pride which deserved the rebuke which Mrs. Cornbury's words had
conveyed to him. He had been severe to Rachel. Lying there, with his
full length stretched upon the grass, he acknowledged to himself
that he had thought more of his own feelings than of hers. While Mrs.
Cornbury had been speaking he could not bring himself to feel that
this was the case. But now in his solitude he did acknowledge it.
What amount of sin had she committed against him that she should be
so punished by him who loved her? He took out her letter from his
pocket, and found that her words were loving, though she had not been
allowed to put into them that eager, pressing, speaking love which he
had desired.

"Spoken ill of me, have they?" said he to himself, as h