reamed
around the lonely edifice on the summit of the hill.

The door was locked. They turned from the porch, and walked hand in hand
to find a resting-place in the churchyard. Stephen chose a flat tomb,
showing itself to be newer and whiter than those around it, and sitting
down himself, gently drew her hand towards him.

'No, not there,' she said.

'Why not here?'

'A mere fancy; but never mind.' And she sat down.

'Elfie, will you love me, in spite of everything that may be said
against me?'

'O Stephen, what makes you repeat that so continually and so sadly? You
know I will. Yes, indeed,' she said, drawing closer, 'whatever may be
said of you--and nothing bad can be--I will cling to you just the same.
Your ways shall be my ways until I die.'

'Did you ever think what my parents might be, or what society I
originally moved in?'

'No, not particularly. I have observed one or two little points in your
manners which are rather quaint--no more. I suppose you have moved in
the ordinary society of professional people.'

'Supposing I have not--that none of my family have a profession except
me?'

'I don't mind. What you are only concerns me.'

'Where do you think I went to school--I mean, to what kind of school?'

'Dr. Somebody's academy,' she said simply.

'No. To a dame school originally, then to a national school.'

'Only to those! Well, I love you just as much, Stephen, dear Stephen,'
she murmured tenderly, 'I do indeed. And why should you tell me these
things so impressively? What do they matter to me?'

He held her closer and proceeded:

'What do you think my father is--does for his living, that is to say?'

'He practises some profession or calling, I suppose.'

'No; he is a mason.'

'A Freemason?'

'No; a cottager and journeyman mason.'

Elfride said nothing at first. After a while she whispered:

'That is a strange idea to me. But never mind; what does it matter?'

'But aren't you angry with me for not telling you before?'

'No, not at all. Is your mother alive?'

'Yes.'

'Is she a nice lady?'

'Very--the best mother in the world. Her people had been well-to-do
yeomen for centuries, but she was only a dairymaid.'

'O Stephen!' came from her in whispered exclamation.

'She continued to attend to a dairy long after my father married her,'
pursued Stephen, without further hesitation. 'And I remember very well
how, when I was very young, I used to go to the milking, look on at the