by any act of impetuosity.  Living was cheap as well as pleasant at the Gethin Castle, and it was of importance to husband his funds—­to reserve as much of his resources as he could for the expenses of his honey-moon.  So far, and no farther, went his plans for the future.  He knew that his mother would not refuse to offer them a home, even if his wife should come to him empty-handed; and the more he humored the old man, and abstained from demanding a decision, when it was clear the other preferred to procrastinate, the better favor he would have with him, and consequently the better chance of gaining a dowry with his daughter.  Even if he should press matters, it was probable, he reasoned, that Trevethick had no decisive reply to give him.  He had doubtless written to Mr. Whymper, and learned all that Richard had already divulged to him—­and no more; that is to say, that he was, though an unacknowledged offspring of the Squire, in a very different position, at all events, toward him than that of a mere natural son.  Trevethick could not have heard less—­that is, less to his advantage—­or he certainly would not have kept silence for so long.

Such was the state of affairs at Gethin.  Harry with her two suitors; her father with his two expectant sons-in-law, each of whom had more or less of reason for his expectation.  Though Richard might be satisfied with it, it was clear it could not last forever—­nor for long.  The day on which the change took place, though it was in no wise remarkable in other respects, he never forgot:  every incident connected with it, though disregarded at the time, impressed itself upon his mind, to be subsequently dwelt upon a thousand times.  It might have been marked in the hitherto sunny calendar of his life as the “Last day of Thoughtless Gayety.  Here Love and Pleasure end.”

It was fine weather, and there were more tourists at the inn than could be accommodated, so Richard had given up his private sitting-room to their temporary use.  This, however, did not throw him more in Harry’s society than usual, since their presence naturally much occupied her time.  He had not, indeed, seen her since the mid-day meal which he had taken in the bar parlor; but she had promised, if she could get away, to call for him at a certain spot where he had gone to sketch—­the church-yard on the hill.  The attraction of the castled rock was such that few visitors sought the former spot, notwithstanding its picturesque and wild position.  How the church maintained itself on that elevated and unsheltered hill, despite such winds as swept it in the winter, was almost a miracle:  but there it stood—­as it had done for centuries—­gray, solitary, sublime.  It was of considerable size, but small in comparison with its God’s-acre, which was of vast extent, and only sparsely occupied by graves.  The bare and rocky moor was almost valueless; it is as easy for one duly qualified to consecrate a square mile as an acre; and the materials