sition and the
sense of his early faithlessness did all the rest.

He turned gloomily away, and let himself out of the precincts. Before
walking along the couple of miles of road which would conduct him to the
little station on the shore, he redescended to the rocks whereon he had
found her, and searched about for the fissure which had made a prisoner
of this terribly belated edition of the Beloved. Kneeling down beside
the spot he inserted his hand, and ultimately, by much wriggling,
withdrew the pretty boot. He mused over it for a moment, put it in his
pocket, and followed the stony route to the Street of Wells.

3. III. THE RENEWED IMAGE BURNS ITSELF IN

There was nothing to hinder Pierston in calling upon the new Avice's
mother as often as he should choose, beyond the five miles of
intervening railway and additional mile or two of clambering over
the heights of the island. Two days later, therefore, he repeated his
journey and knocked about tea-time at the widow's door.

As he had feared, the daughter was not at home. He sat down beside the
old sweetheart who, having eclipsed her mother in past days, had now
eclipsed herself in her child. Jocelyn produced the girl's boot from his
pocket.

'Then, 'tis YOU who helped Avice out of her predicament?' said Mrs.
Pierston, with surprise.

'Yes, my dear friend; and perhaps I shall ask you to help me out of mine
before I have done. But never mind that now. What did she tell you about
the adventure?'

Mrs. Pierston was looking thoughtfully upon him. 'Well, 'tis rather
strange it should have been you, sir,' she replied. She seemed to be
a good deal interested. 'I thought it might have been a younger man--a
much younger man.'

'It might have been as far as feelings were concerned.... Now, Avice,
I'll to the point at once. Virtually I have known your daughter any
number of years. When I talk to her I can anticipate every turn of her
thought, every sentiment, every act, so long did I study those things in
your mother and in you. Therefore I do not require to learn her; she
was learnt by me in her previous existences. Now, don't be shocked: I am
willing to marry her--I should be overjoyed to do it, if there would
be nothing preposterous about it, or that would seem like a man making
himself too much of a fool, and so degrading her in consenting. I can
make her comparatively rich, as you know, and I would indulge her every
whim. There is the idea, bluntly put. It wou