long' (rather disappointedly).

'I said long, not very long.'

'And did he want to marry you?'

'I believe he did. But I didn't see anything in him. He was not good
enough, even if I had loved him.'

'May I ask what he was?'

'A farmer.'

'A farmer not good enough--how much better than my family!' Stephen
murmured.

'Where is he now?' he continued to Elfride.

'HERE.'

'Here! what do you mean by that?'

'I mean that he is here.'

'Where here?'

'Under us. He is under this tomb. He is dead, and we are sitting on his
grave.'

'Elfie,' said the young man, standing up and looking at the tomb,
'how odd and sad that revelation seems! It quite depresses me for the
moment.'

'Stephen! I didn't wish to sit here; but you would do so.'

'You never encouraged him?'

'Never by look, word, or sign,' she said solemnly. 'He died of
consumption, and was buried the day you first came.'

'Let us go away. I don't like standing by HIM, even if you never loved
him. He was BEFORE me.'

'Worries make you unreasonable,' she half pouted, following Stephen at
the distance of a few steps. 'Perhaps I ought to have told you before we
sat down. Yes; let us go.'

Chapter IX

'Her father did fume'

Oppressed, in spite of themselves, by a foresight of impending
complications, Elfride and Stephen returned down the hill hand in hand.
At the door they paused wistfully, like children late at school.

Women accept their destiny more readily than men. Elfride had now
resigned herself to the overwhelming idea of her lover's sorry
antecedents; Stephen had not forgotten the trifling grievance that
Elfride had known earlier admiration than his own.

'What was that young man's name?' he inquired.

'Felix Jethway; a widow's only son.'

'I remember the family.'

'She hates me now. She says I killed him.'

Stephen mused, and they entered the porch.

'Stephen, I love only you,' she tremulously whispered. He pressed her
fingers, and the trifling shadow passed away, to admit again the mutual
and more tangible trouble.

The study appeared to be the only room lighted up. They entered,
each with a demeanour intended to conceal the inconcealable fact that
reciprocal love was their dominant chord. Elfride perceived a man,
sitting with his back towards herself, talking to her father. She would
have retired, but Mr. Swancourt had seen her.

'Come in,' he said; 'it is only Martin Cannister, come for a copy of the
register