er as valuable as I could to him by schooling her as many
years and as thoroughly as possible. I mean to keep my vow. I made it
because I did his father a terrible wrong; and it was a weight on my
conscience ever since that time till this scheme of making amends
occurred to me through seeing that Giles liked her."

"Wronged his father?" asked Mrs. Melbury.

"Yes, grievously wronged him," said her husband.

"Well, don't think of it to-night," she urged. "Come indoors."

"No, no, the air cools my head. I shall not stay long." He was silent
a while; then he told her, as nearly as Marty could gather, that his
first wife, his daughter Grace's mother, was first the sweetheart of
Winterborne's father, who loved her tenderly, till he, the speaker, won
her away from him by a trick, because he wanted to marry her himself.
He sadly went on to say that the other man's happiness was ruined by
it; that though he married Winterborne's mother, it was but a
half-hearted business with him. Melbury added that he was afterwards
very miserable at what he had done; but that as time went on, and the
children grew up, and seemed to be attached to each other, he
determined to do all he could to right the wrong by letting his
daughter marry the lad; not only that, but to give her the best
education he could afford, so as to make the gift as valuable a one as
it lay in his power to bestow. "I still mean to do it," said Melbury.

"Then do," said she.

"But all these things trouble me," said he; "for I feel I am
sacrificing her for my own sin; and I think of her, and often come down
here and look at this."

"Look at what?" asked his wife.

He took the candle from her hand, held it to the ground, and removed a
tile which lay in the garden-path. "'Tis the track of her shoe that
she made when she ran down here the day before she went away all those
months ago. I covered it up when she was gone; and when I come here
and look at it, I ask myself again, why should she be sacrificed to a
poor man?"

"It is not altogether a sacrifice," said the woman. "He is in love
with her, and he's honest and upright. If she encourages him, what can
you wish for more?"

"I wish for nothing definite. But there's a lot of things possible for
her. Why, Mrs. Charmond is wanting some refined young lady, I hear, to
go abroad with her--as companion or something of the kind. She'd jump
at Grace."

"That's all uncertain. Better stick to what's sure."