lfishness said to him--it is better so. And his mental cowardice
whispered to him--your safety is in your solitude. And he put the memory
of Lily's love and of the beauty of her nature from him.

So his silent autumn passed by. And his silent winter came. One day, in
a December frost, he met the Canon, muffled up to the chin and on his
way to see Miss Bigelow, who professed herself once again _in extremis_.
They stopped in the snow and spoke a few commonplace words, but Maurice
thought he observed a peculiar furtiveness in the old man's manner, a
hint of some suppressed excitement in his voice.

"How is Lily?" Maurice asked.

"Fairly well," the Canon said.

"She is still at the inn?"

"No, she lately moved into a little house further up the valley."

"Further up the valley," Maurice said. "But there's only one other house
in that direction. I have been there you know," he added hastily.

"Lily told me you had stayed there."

"Well, but--" Maurice persisted, "there is only one house, a private
house."

"They have been building up there," the Canon said evasively. "Houses
are springing up. It is a pity. Good-night."

And he turned and walked away. Maurice stood looking after him. So they
had been building in the valley, and End Cottage no longer possessed the
distinction of being the finale of man in that Arcadia of woods and
streams, and rugged hills on which the clouds brooded, from which the
rain came like a mournful pilgrim, to weep over the gentle shrine of
nature.

So they had been building in the valley.

Maurice made his way home. His mind was full of memories.

The close of the year drew on. It was a bad season, a cruel season for
the poor. Men went about saying to one another that it was a hard
winter. The papers were full of reports of abnormal frosts, of
tremendous falls of snow, of ice-bound rivers and trains delayed. There
were deaths from cold. The starving died off like flies, under hedges by
roadsides, in the fireless attics of towns. Comfortable and well-to-do
persons talked vigorously of the delights of an old-fashioned Christmas.
The doctors had many patients. Among them Maurice was very busy. His
talent had monopolised Brayfield and his time was incessantly occupied.
He scarcely noticed Christmas. For even on that day he was full of work.
Several people managed to be very ill among the plum puddings. The year
died and was buried. The New Year dawned, and still the evil weather
continue