claim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family; and it was a satisfaction
both to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might take
Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from Cheverel
Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit the
scene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encourage
the slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, by
the time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left a
world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother,
Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel
nothing but content at seeing a new 'little black-eyed monkey' running up
and down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no
memories--those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby's smile.

In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling affection, Mr.
Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to lean
entirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continual
languor and want of active interest was a natural consequence of bodily
feebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground
for hoping the best. But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised,
and in the struggle to put forth a blossom it died.

Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil's love went with her into deep silence for
evermore.

EPILOGUE

This was Mr. Gilfil's love-story, which lay far back from the time when
he sat, worn and grey, by his lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage.
Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, strangely
different as they seem from the scanty white hairs, the apathetic
content, and the unexpectant quiescence of old age, are but part of the
same life's journey; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet _Addio_
of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day's travel that brings
us to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky walls and
among the guttural voices of the Valais.

To those who were familiar only with the grey-haired Vicar, jogging
leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard
to believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart
full of passion and tenderness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest
gallop on the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue,
and bucolic tastes, and sparing habit