I am
not hurt."

"Then how come you here?"

"Walked here, sir."

"And where are your servants?"

"You forget. I am only Eleanor Powle--I do not go with a train after
me."

But she was obliged to give an account of the whole affair.

"You must not go alone in that way again," said he decidedly. "Sit down
again."

"Look where the sun is. I am going home," said Eleanor.

"Sit down. I am going to send for a carriage."

Eleanor protested, in vain. Mr. Carlisle sent his groom on to the Lodge
with the message, and the heels of the horses were presently clattering
in the distance. Eleanor stood still.

"I do not want rest," she insisted. "I am ready to walk home, and able.
I have been resting."

"How long?"

"A long while. I went into Mrs. Williams's cottage and rested there. I
would rather go on."

He put her hand upon his arm and turned towards the Lodge, but
permitted her after all to move only at the gentlest of rates.

"You will not go out in this way again?" he said; and the words were
more an expression of his own will than an enquiry as to hers.

"There is no reason why I should not," Eleanor answered.

"I do not like that you should be walking over moors and taking shelter
in cottages, without protection."

"I can protect myself. I know what is due to me."

"You must remember what is due to me," he said laughing, and stopping
her lips when she would have replied. Eleanor walked along, silenced,
and for the moment subdued. The wish was in her heart, to have let Mr.
Carlisle know in some degree what bent her spirit was taking; to have
given him some hint of what he must expect in her when she became his
wife; she could not find how to do it. She could not see the way to
begin. So far was Mr. Carlisle from the whole world of religious
interests and concerns, that to introduce it to him seemed like
bringing opposite poles together. She walked by his side very silent
and doubtful. He thought she was tired; put her into the carriage with
great tenderness when it came; and at parting from her in the evening
desired her to go early to rest.

Eleanor was very little likely to do it. The bodily adventures of the
day had left little trace, or little that was regarded; the mental
journey had been much more lasting in its effects. That night there was
a young moon, and Eleanor sat at her window, looking out into the
shadowy indistinctness of the outer world, while she tried to resolve
the confusion of her