Gilmore's mind on the subject was not changed.

"Have you heard from Loring?" the Squire asked Mrs. Fenwick as he got
up to leave the Vicarage.

"Oh, yes,--constantly. She is quite well, Mr. Gilmore."

"I sometimes think that I'll go off and have a look at her."

"I'm sure both she and her aunt would be glad to see you."

"But would it be wise?"

"If you ask me, I am bound to say that I think it would not be wise.
If I were you, I would leave her for awhile. Mary is as good as gold,
but she is a woman; and, like other women, the more she is sought,
the more difficult she will be."

"It always seems to me," said Mr. Gilmore, "that to be successful in
love, a man should not be in love at all; or, at any rate, he should
hide it." Then he went off home alone, feeling on his heart that
pernicious load of a burden which comes from the unrestrained longing
for some good thing which cannot be attained. It seemed to him now
that nothing in life would be worth a thought if Mary Lowther should
continue to say him nay; and it seemed to him, too, that unless the
yea were said very quickly, all his aptitudes for enjoyment would be
worn out of him.

On the next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. and Mrs.
Fenwick walked down to the mill together. They went through the
village, and thence by a pathway down to a little foot-bridge, and so
along the river side. It was a beautiful October morning, the 7th of
October, and Fenwick talked of the pheasants. Gilmore, though he was
a sportsman, and shot rabbits and partridges about his own property,
and went occasionally to shooting-parties at a distance, preserved
no game. There had been some old unpleasantness about the Marquis's
pheasants, and he had given it up. There could be no doubt that his
property in the parish being chiefly low lying lands and water meads
unfit for coverts, was not well disposed for preserving pheasants,
and that in shooting he would more likely shoot Lord Trowbridge's
birds than his own. But it was equally certain that Lord Trowbridge's
pheasants made no scruple of feeding on his land. Nevertheless, he
had thought it right to give up all idea of keeping up a head of game
for his own use in Bullhampton.

"Upon my word, if I were you, Gilmore," said the parson, as a bird
rose from the ground close at their feet, "I should cease to be nice
about the shooting after what happened yesterday."

"You don't mean that you would retaliate, Frank?"

"I thin