t them.'

His mind was already made up. He said calmly, 'Father, when you are
talking to Miss Aldclyffe, mention to her that I have asked Adelaide if
she is willing to marry me next Christmas. She is interested in my union
with Adelaide, and the news will be welcome to her.'

'And yet she can be iron with reference to me and her property,' the
farmer murmured. 'Very well, Ted, I'll tell her.'

6. DECEMBER THE FIFTH

Of the many contradictory particulars constituting a woman's heart, two
had shown their vigorous contrast in Cytherea's bosom just at this time.

It was a dark morning, the morning after old Mr. Springrove's visit
to Miss Aldclyffe, which had terminated as Edward had intended. Having
risen an hour earlier than was usual with her, Cytherea sat at the
window of an elegant little sitting-room on the ground floor, which had
been appropriated to her by the kindness or whim of Miss Aldclyffe, that
she might not be driven into that lady's presence against her will. She
leant with her face on her hand, looking out into the gloomy grey air.
A yellow glimmer from the flapping flame of the newly-lit fire fluttered
on one side of her face and neck like a butterfly about to settle there,
contrasting warmly with the other side of the same fair face, which
received from the window the faint cold morning light, so weak that her
shadow from the fire had a distinct outline on the window-shutter in
spite of it. There the shadow danced like a demon, blue and grim.

The contradiction alluded to was that in spite of the decisive
mood which two months earlier in the year had caused her to write a
peremptory and final letter to Edward, she was now hoping for some
answer other than the only possible one a man who, as she held, did not
love her wildly, could send to such a communication. For a lover who
did love wildly, she had left one little loophole in her otherwise
straightforward epistle. Why she expected the letter on some morning of
this particular week was, that hearing of his return to Carriford, she
fondly assumed that he meant to ask for an interview before he left.
Hence it was, too, that for the last few days, she had not been able to
keep in bed later than the time of the postman's arrival.

The clock pointed to half-past seven. She saw the postman emerge from
beneath the bare boughs of the park trees, come through the wicket, dive
through the shrubbery, reappear on the lawn, stalk across it without
reference to