rible melancholy thing--so soon
too!'

Knight and Stephen turned their heads and looked.

'And what's that?' continued the smith.

'That's the coronet--beautifully finished, isn't it? Ah, that cost some
money!'

''Tis as fine a bit of metal work as ever I see--that 'tis.'

'It came from the same people as the coffin, you know, but was not ready
soon enough to be sent round to the house in London yesterday. I've got
to fix it on this very night.'

The carefully-packed articles were a coffin-plate and coronet.

Knight and Stephen came forward. The undertaker's man, on seeing them
look for the inscription, civilly turned it round towards them, and each
read, almost at one moment, by the ruddy light of the coals:

E L F R I D E,
Wife of Spenser Hugo Luxellian,
Fifteenth Baron Luxellian:
Died February 10, 18--.

They read it, and read it, and read it again--Stephen and Knight--as if
animated by one soul. Then Stephen put his hand upon Knight's arm, and
they retired from the yellow glow, further, further, till the chill
darkness enclosed them round, and the quiet sky asserted its presence
overhead as a dim grey sheet of blank monotony.

'Where shall we go?' said Stephen.

'I don't know.'

A long silence ensued....'Elfride married!' said Stephen then in a thin
whisper, as if he feared to let the assertion loose on the world.

'False,' whispered Knight.

'And dead. Denied us both. I hate "false"--I hate it!'

Knight made no answer.

Nothing was heard by them now save the slow measurement of time by their
beating pulses, the soft touch of the dribbling rain upon their clothes,
and the low purr of the blacksmith's bellows hard by.

'Shall we follow Elfie any further?' Stephen said.

'No: let us leave her alone. She is beyond our love, and let her be
beyond our reproach. Since we don't know half the reasons that made her
do as she did, Stephen, how can we say, even now, that she was not pure
and true in heart?' Knight's voice had now become mild and gentle as a
child's. He went on: 'Can we call her ambitious? No. Circumstance has,
as usual, overpowered her purposes--fragile and delicate as she--liable
to be overthrown in a moment by the coarse elements of accident. I know
that's it,--don't you?'

'It may be--it must be. Let us go on.'

They began to bend their steps towards Castle Boterel, whither they
had sent their bags from Camelton. They wandered on in