rassments of her sad fortune, and she regarded this indifference, as
gushing natures will do under such circumstances, as genuine resignation
and devotedness.

Manston met her again the following day: indeed, there was no escaping
him now. At the end of a short conversation between them, which took
place in the hollow of the park by the waterfall, obscured on the outer
side by the low hanging branches of the limes, she tacitly assented to
his assumption of a privilege greater than any that had preceded it. He
stooped and kissed her brow.

Before going to bed she wrote to Owen explaining the whole matter. It
was too late in the evening for the postman's visit, and she placed the
letter on the mantelpiece to send it the next day.

The morning (Sunday) brought a hurried postscript to Owen's letter of
the day before:--

'September 9, 1865.

'DEAR CYTHEREA--I have received a frank and friendly letter from Mr.
Manston explaining the position in which he stands now, and also that in
which he hopes to stand towards you. Can't you love him? Why not? Try,
for he is a good, and not only that, but a cultured man. Think of the
weary and laborious future that awaits you if you continue for life in
your present position, and do you see any way of escape from it except
by marriage? I don't. Don't go against your heart, Cytherea, but be
wise.--Ever affectionately yours, OWEN.'

She thought that probably he had replied to Mr. Manston in the same
favouring mood. She had a conviction that that day would settle her
doom. Yet

'So true a fool is love,'

that even now she nourished a half-hope that something would happen at
the last moment to thwart her deliberately-formed intentions, and favour
the old emotion she was using all her strength to thrust down.

8. THE TENTH OF SEPTEMBER

The Sunday was the thirteenth after Trinity, and the afternoon service
at Carriford was nearly over. The people were singing the Evening Hymn.

Manston was at church as usual in his accustomed place two seats forward
from the large square pew occupied by Miss Aldclyffe and Cytherea.

The ordinary sadness of an autumnal evening-service seemed, in
Cytherea's eyes, to be doubled on this particular occasion. She looked
at all the people as they stood and sang, waving backwards and forwards
like a forest of pines swayed by a gentle breeze; then at the village
children singing too, their heads inclin