than the footman!"

Lavendar put the penny in his waistcoat pocket and has never spent it
to this day. It is impossible to explain these things; one can only
state them as facts. Another fact, too, that he suddenly remembered,
when he went to his room, was, that the moment her personality touched
his he was filled with curiosity about her. He had met hundreds of
women and enjoyed their conversation, but seldom longed to know on the
instant everything that had previously happened to them.

VIII

SUNDAY AT STOKE REVEL

On Sundays, the Stoke Revel household was expected to appear at church
in full strength, visitors included.

"We meet in the hall punctually at a quarter to eleven," it was Miss
Smeardon's duty to announce to strangers. "Mrs. de Tracy always
prefers that the Stoke Revel guests should walk down together, as it
sets a good example to the villagers."

"What Nelson said about going to church with Lady Hamilton!" Lavendar
had once commented, irrepressibly, but the allusion, rather
fortunately, was lost upon Miss Smeardon. Mark began to picture the
familiar Sunday scene to himself; Miss Smeardon in the hall at a
quarter to eleven punctually, marshalling the church-goers; and Mrs.
Loring,--she would be late of course, and come fluttering downstairs
in some bewitching combination of flowery hat and floating scarf that
no one had ever seen before. What a lover's opportunity in this
lateness, thought the young man to himself; but one could enjoy a walk
to church in charming company, though something less than a lover.

It was Mrs. de Tracy's custom, on Sunday mornings, to precede her
household by half an hour in going to the sanctuary. No infirmities of
old age had invaded her iron constitution, and it was nothing to her
to walk alone to the church of Stoke Revel, steep though the hill was
which led down through the ancient village to the yet more ancient
edifice at its foot. During this solitary interval, Mrs. de Tracy
visited her husband's tomb, and no one knew, or dared, or cared to
enquire, what motive encouraged this pious action in a character so
devoid of tenderness and sentiment. Was it affection, was it duty, was
it a mere form, a tribute to the greatness of an owner of Stoke
Revel, such as a nation pays to a dead king? Who could tell?

The graveyard of Stoke Revel owned a yew tree, so very, very old that
the count of its years was lost and had become a fable or a fairy
tale. It was twisted