nt, as he looked over his cousin's
book, was of a lower rank, Horatian rather than Psalmodic--

'O, what hast thou of her, of her
Whose every look did love inspire;
Whose every breathing fanned my fire,
And stole me from myself away!'

Then, without letting him see her, Cytherea slipt out of church early,
and went home, the tones of the organ still lingering in her ears as she
tried bravely to kill a jealous thought that would nevertheless live:
'My nature is one capable of more, far more, intense feeling than hers!
She can't appreciate all the sides of him--she never will! He is more
tangible to me even now, as a thought, than his presence itself is to
her!' She was less noble then.

But she continually repressed her misery and bitterness of heart till
the effort to do so showed signs of lessening. At length she even tried
to hope that her lost lover and her rival would love one another very
dearly.

The scene and the sentiment dropped into the past. Meanwhile, Manston
continued visibly before her. He, though quiet and subdued in his
bearing for a long time after the calamity of November, had not
simulated a grief that he did not feel. At first his loss seemed so
to absorb him--though as a startling change rather than as a heavy
sorrow--that he paid Cytherea no attention whatever. His conduct was
uniformly kind and respectful, but little more. Then, as the date of the
catastrophe grew remoter, he began to wear a different aspect towards
her. He always contrived to obliterate by his manner all recollection on
her side that she was comparatively more dependent than himself--making
much of her womanhood, nothing of her situation. Prompt to aid her
whenever occasion offered, and full of delightful petits soins at all
times, he was not officious. In this way he irresistibly won for himself
a position as her friend, and the more easily in that he allowed not the
faintest symptom of the old love to be apparent.

Matters stood thus in the middle of the spring when the next move on his
behalf was made by Miss Aldclyffe.

2. THE THIRD OF MAY

She led Cytherea to a summer-house called the Fane, built in the private
grounds about the mansion in the form of a Grecian temple; it overlooked
the lake, the island on it, the trees, and their undisturbed reflection
in the smooth still water. Here the old and young maid halted; here they
stood, side by side, mentally imbibing the scene.

The month was May--t