al
anguish. By now he had reached the farm gate. The sunset had cleared and
deepened. Great rosy thunder-clouds topped the down, and strong lights
were climbing up the bronzed masses of wood behind the house. No one to
be seen. At Millsborough they could hardly be out of church yet. He had
time before him. He walked cautiously up the farm-lane, diverging to the
left as he reached the buildings so as to escape the notice of any one
who might be left in charge. As he slipped under the large cart-shed
which backed on the cow-house, he heard somebody whistling inside. It was
old Halsey, who had done the afternoon milking in the absence of the
girls. Delane could hear the movements of the labourer, and the munching
of the cows. A little farther on was the stable, and two horses' heads,
looking pensively out from the open half of the door. Delane peered into
the stable with the eye of one to whom all farming matters were familiar.
Three fine horses--d---d fine horses!--must have cost L100 a piece at
least. No doubt the cows were equally good stuff. And he had noticed
under the outer cart-shed a brand-new reaper and binder, and other farm
implements and machines of the best quality. Rachel was doing the thing
in style.

But where was the farm-house? Then as he crept round the third side of
the rough quadrangle, he became aware of a large window with white
curtains. Looking through it with his face against the glass, he was
startled to find that he was looking straight into the farm-yard through
another window of equal size on the other side of the room. And at the
moment Halsey came out of the cow-shed carrying a pail of milk in either
hand. Delane drew hastily back into the shelter of an old holly that grew
against the wall, till the old man had disappeared. Then he eagerly
examined the room, which was still suffused by the sunset. Its prettiness
and comfort were so many fresh exasperations. He contrasted it inwardly
with the wretched lodging from which he had just come. Why, he knew the
photographs on the walls--her father, the old parson, and her puritanical
mother, whom Rachel had always thrown in his teeth. Her eldest brother,
too, who had been drowned at sea. And that engraving--that sentimental
thing by Watts, "Love and Death," that Rachel had bought once on a visit
to Toronto, and he had scolded her for buying. There it was, as large as
life. How did it come there? Was it her property or his? He believed he
could claim