ms on me. To me, personally, his
generosity--has been incredible. He is old--and ill. I must stay by him."

Her mind cried out, "Yes--but on your own terms, not his!"

But she did not say it. Her pride came to her aid. She sprang up, a
glittering animation flashing back into her face, transforming its
softness, its tenderness.

"I understand--I quite understand. Thank you for being so plain--and
bearing with my--strange ideas. Now--I don't think we can be of any
further use to each other--though--" she clasped her hands
involuntarily--"I shall always hope and pray--"

She did not finish. He broke into a cry.

"Lydia! you send me away?"

"I don't accept your conditions--nor you mine. There is no more to be
said."

He looked at her sombrely, remorse struggling with his will. But also
anger--the anger of a naturally arrogant temperament--that he should find
her so resistant.

"If you loved me--"

"Ah--no," she shook her head fiercely, the bright tears in her eyes;
"don't let's talk of love! That has nothing to say to it."

She turned, and took up a piece of embroidery lying on a table near. He
accepted the indication, turning very white. But still he lingered.

"Is there nothing I could say that would alter your mind?"

"I am afraid--nothing."

She gave him her hand. He scarcely dared to press it; she had become
suddenly so strong, so hostile. Her light beauty had turned as it were to
fire; one saw the flame of the spirit.

A tumult of thoughts and regrets rushed through him. But things
inexorable held him. With a long, lingering look at her, he turned and
went.

A little later, Susy entering timidly found Lydia sitting alone in a room
that was nearly dark. Some instinct guided her. She came in, took a stool
beside her sister, and leant her head against Lydia's knee. Lydia said
nothing, but their hands joined, and for long they sat in the firelight,
the only sounds, Lydia's stifled sobbing, and the soft crackling of a
dying flame.

BOOK IV

XIX

Tatham was returning alone from a run with the West Cumbrian hounds. The
December day was nearly done, and he saw the pageant of its going from a
point on the outskirts of his own park. The park, a great space of wild
land extending some miles to the north through a sparsely peopled county,
was bounded and intersected throughout its northerly section by various
high moorland roads. At a cross-road, leading to Duddon on the left, and
to a remot