same place without
having seen either Melbury or apparently Fitzpiers. Melbury was soon at
the spot, despite his aches and his sixty years. Mrs. Charmond had
come up with the doctor, who was standing immediately behind the
carriage. She had turned to him, her arm being thrown carelessly over
the back of the seat. They looked in each other's faces without
uttering a word, an arch yet gloomy smile wreathing her lips.
Fitzpiers clasped her hanging hand, and, while she still remained in
the same listless attitude, looking volumes into his eyes, he
stealthily unbuttoned her glove, and stripped her hand of it by rolling
back the gauntlet over the fingers, so that it came off inside out. He
then raised her hand to his month, she still reclining passively,
watching him as she might have watched a fly upon her dress. At last
she said, "Well, sir, what excuse for this disobedience?"

"I make none."

"Then go your way, and let me go mine." She snatched away her hand,
touched the pony with the whip, and left him standing there, holding
the reversed glove.

Melbury's first impulse was to reveal his presence to Fitzpiers, and
upbraid him bitterly. But a moment's thought was sufficient to show
him the futility of any such simple proceeding. There was not, after
all, so much in what he had witnessed as in what that scene might be
the surface and froth of--probably a state of mind on which censure
operates as an aggravation rather than as a cure. Moreover, he said to
himself that the point of attack should be the woman, if either. He
therefore kept out of sight, and musing sadly, even tearfully--for he
was meek as a child in matters concerning his daughter--continued his
way towards Hintock.

The insight which is bred of deep sympathy was never more finely
exemplified than in this instance. Through her guarded manner, her
dignified speech, her placid countenance, he discerned the interior of
Grace's life only too truly, hidden as were its incidents from every
outer eye.

These incidents had become painful enough. Fitzpiers had latterly
developed an irritable discontent which vented itself in monologues
when Grace was present to hear them. The early morning of this day had
been dull, after a night of wind, and on looking out of the window
Fitzpiers had observed some of Melbury's men dragging away a large limb
which had been snapped off a beech-tree. Everything was cold and
colorless.

"My good Heaven!" he said, as h