vening
before he left, and I saw him quit Fieldhead afterwards. I read his
countenance, or _tried_ to read it. He turned from me. I divined that he
would be long away. Some fine, slight fingers have a wondrous knack at
pulverizing a man's brittle pride. I suppose Robert put too much trust
in his manly beauty and native gentlemanhood. Those are better off who,
being destitute of advantage, cannot cherish delusion. But I will write,
and say you advise his return."

"Do not say _I_ advise his return, but that his return is advisable."

The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.

CHAPTER XXIX.

LOUIS MOORE.

Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. Being a quiet man, he endured it
better than most men would. Having a large world of his own in his own
head and heart, he tolerated confinement to a small, still corner of the
real world very patiently.

How hushed is Fieldhead this evening! All but Moore--Miss Keeldar, the
whole family of the Sympsons, even Henry--are gone to Nunnely. Sir
Philip would have them come; he wished to make them acquainted with his
mother and sisters, who are now at the priory. Kind gentleman as the
baronet is, he asked the tutor too; but the tutor would much sooner have
made an appointment with the ghost of the Earl of Huntingdon to meet
him, and a shadowy ring of his merry men, under the canopy of the
thickest, blackest, oldest oak in Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would rather
have appointed tryst with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun, among the
wet and weedy relics of that ruined sanctuary of theirs, mouldering in
the core of the wood. Louis Moore longs to have something near him
to-night; but not the boy-baronet, nor his benevolent but stern mother,
nor his patrician sisters, nor one soul of the Sympsons.

This night is not calm; the equinox still struggles in its storms. The
wild rains of the day are abated; the great single cloud disparts and
rolls away from heaven, not passing and leaving a sea all sapphire, but
tossed buoyant before a continued, long-sounding, high-rushing moonlight
tempest. The moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale, as glad as if she
gave herself to his fierce caress with love. No Endymion will watch for
his goddess to-night. There are no flocks out on the mountains; and it
is well, for to-night she welcomes AEolus.

Moore, sitting in the schoolroom, heard the storm roar round the other
gable and along the hall-front. This end was sheltered. He wanted