him from her own window while she was tying on her bonnet, would feel that she knew what was passing through his mind, and would regret that circumstances had forced her to be beholden to him for such assistance.  But, in truth, she did not know all that he thought at such times.  “It is mine,” he would say to himself, as he looked around on the pleasant place.  “But it is well for me that they should enjoy it.  She is my brother’s widow, and she is welcome;—­very welcome.”  I think that if those two persons had known more than they did of each other’s hearts and minds they might have loved each other better.

And then Crosbie told Lily of his intention.  “On Wednesday!” she said, turning almost pale with emotion as she heard this news.  He had told her abruptly, not thinking, probably, that such tidings would affect her so strongly.

“Well, yes.  I have written to Lady de Courcy and said Wednesday.  It wouldn’t do for me exactly to drop everybody, and perhaps—­”

“Oh, no!  And, Adolphus, you don’t suppose I begrudge your going.  Only it does seem so sudden; does it not?”

“You see, I’ve been here over six weeks.”

“Yes; you’ve been very good.  When I think of it, what a six weeks it has been!  I wonder whether the difference seems to you as great as it does to me.  I’ve left off being a grub, and begun to be a butterfly.”

“But you mustn’t be a butterfly when you’re married, Lily.”

“No; not in that sense.  But I meant that my real position in the world,—­that for which I would fain hope that I was created,—­opened to me only when I knew you and knew that you loved me.  But mamma is calling us, and we must go through to church.  Going on Wednesday!  There are only three days more, then!”

“Yes, just three days,” he said, as he took her on his arm and passed through the house on to the road.

“And when are we to see you again?” she asked, as they reached the churchyard.

“Ah, who is to say that yet?  We must ask the Chairman of Committees when he will let me go again.”  Then there was nothing more said, and they all followed the squire through the little porch and up to the big family-pew in which they all sat.  Here the squire took his place in one special corner which he had occupied ever since his father’s death, and from which he read the responses loudly and plainly,—­so loudly and plainly, that the parish clerk could by no means equal him, though with tremulous voice he still made the attempt.  “T’ squire’d like to be squire, and parson, and clerk, and everything; so a would,” the poor clerk would say, when complaining of the ill-usage which he suffered.