“Oh, dear, no.  I think I’ll go back through the squire’s fields, and out on the road at the white gate.  The path is quite dry now.”

“I dare say it is,” said Mrs Dale.

“Lily, I wonder whether you would come as far as that with me.”  As the request was made Mrs Dale looked at her daughter almost beseechingly.  “Do, pray do,” said he; “it is a beautiful day for walking.”

The path proposed lay right across the field into which Lily had taken Crosbie when she made her offer to let him off from his engagement.  Could it be possible that she should ever walk there again with another lover?  “No, John,” she said; “not to-day, I think.  I am almost tired, and I had rather not go out.”

“It would do you good,” said Mrs Dale.

“I don’t want to be done good to, mamma.  Besides, I should have to come back by myself.”

“I’ll come back with you,” said Johnny.

“Oh, yes; and then I should have to go again with you.  But, John, really I don’t wish to walk to-day.”  Whereupon John Eames again put down his hat.

“Lily,” said he; and then he stopped.  Mrs Dale walked away to the window, turning her back upon her daughter and visitor.  “Lily, I have come over here on purpose to speak to you.  Indeed, I have come down from London only that I might see you.”

“Have you, John?”

“Yes, I have.  You know well all that I have got to tell you.  I loved you before he ever saw you; and now that he has gone, I love you better than I ever did.  Dear Lily!” and he put out his hand to her.

“No, John; no,” she answered.

“Must it be always no?”

“Always no to that.  How can it be otherwise?  You would not have me marry you while I love another!”

“But he is gone.  He has taken another wife.”

“I cannot change myself because he is changed.  If you are kind to me you will let that be enough.”

“But you are so unkind to me!”

“No, no; oh, I would wish to be so kind to you!  John, here; take my hand.  It is the hand of a friend who loves you, and will always love you.  Dear John, I will do anything,—­everything for you but that.”

“There is only one thing,” said he, still holding her by the hand, but with his face turned from her.

“Nay; do not say so.  Are you worse off than I am?  I could not have that one thing, and I was nearer to my heart’s longings than you have ever been.  I cannot have that one thing; but I know that there are other things, and I will not allow myself to be broken-hearted.”

“You are stronger than I am,” he said.

“Not stronger, but more certain.  Make yourself as sure as I am, and you, too, will be strong.  Is it not so, mamma?”

“I wish it could be otherwise;—­I wish it could be otherwise!  If you can give him any hope—­”

“Mamma!”

“Tell me that I may come again,—­in a year,” he pleaded.