“With a portionless girl, yes.  Robert Grame,” she went on rapidly with impassioned earnestness, “when you marry, it must be with someone who can help you; whose income will compensate for the deficiency of yours.  Look around you well:  there may be some young ladies rich in the world’s wealth, even in Church Leet, who will forget your want of fortune for your own sake.”

Did he misunderstand her?  It was hardly possible.  She had a large fortune; Lucy none.  But he answered as though he comprehended not.  It may be that he deemed it best to set her ill-regulated hopes at rest for ever.

“One can hardly suppose a temptation of that kind would fall in the way of an obscure individual like myself.  If it did, I could but reject it.  I should not marry for money.  I shall never marry where I do not love.”

They had halted near one of the terrace seats.  On it lay a toy of Kate’s, a little wooden “box of bells.”  Mechanically, her mind far away, Eliza took it up and began, still mechanically, turning the wire which set the bells to play with a soft but not unpleasant jingle.

“You love Lucy Carradyne!” she whispered.

“I fear I do,” he answered.  “Though I have struggled against the conviction.”

A sudden crash startled them; shivers of glass fell before their feet; fit accompaniment to the shattered hopes of one who stood there.  Kate Dancox, aiming at Mr. Grame’s hat, had sent her ball through the window.  He leaped away to catch the culprit, and Eliza Monk sat down on the bench, all gladness gone out of her.  Her love-dream had turned out to be a snare and a delusion.

“Who did that?”

Captain Monk, frightened from his after-dinner nap by the crash, came forth in anger.  Kate got a box on the ear, and was sent to bed howling.

“You should send her to school, papa.”

“And I will,” declared the Captain.  “She startled me out of my sleep.  Out of a dream, too.  And it is not often I dream.  I thought I was hearing the chimes.”

“Chimes which I have not yet been fortunate enough to hear,” said Mr. Grame with a smile.  Eliza recalled the sound of the bells she had set in motion, and thought it must have penetrated to her father in his sleep.

“By George, no!  You shall, though, Grame.  They shall ring the new year in when it comes.”

“Aunt Emma won’t like that,” laughingly commented Eliza.  She was trying to be gay and careless before Robert Grame.

“Aunt Emma may dislike it!” retorted the Captain.  “She has picked up some ridiculously absurd notion, Grame, that the bells bring ill-luck when they are heard.  Women are so foolishly superstitious.”

“That must be a very far-fetched superstition,” said the parson.

“One might as well believe in witches,” mocked the Captain.  “I have given in to her fancies for some years, not to cross her, and let the bells be silent:  she’s a good woman on the whole; but be hanged if I will any longer.  On the last day of this year, Grame, you shall hear the chimes.”