'Such considerations as pounds_ s. d._? For shame!'

'For shame, indeed,' said the happy Robert. 'Phoebe judged you truly. I
did not know what might be the effect of habit--' and he became
embarrassed, doubtful whether she would accept the assumption on which he
spoke; but she went beyond his hopes.

'The only place I ever cared for is a very small old parsonage,' she
said, with feeling in her tone.

'Wrapworth? that is near Castle Blanch.'

'Yes! I must show it you. You shall come with Honor and Phoebe on
Monday, and I will show you everything.'

'I should be delighted--but is it not arranged?'

'I'll take care of that. Mr. Prendergast shall take you in, as he would
a newly-arrived rhinoceros, if I told him. He was our curate, and used
to live in the house even in our time. Don't say a word, Robin; it is to
be. I must have you see my river, and the stile where my father used to
sit when he was tired. I've never told any one which that is.'

Ordinarily Lucilla never seemed to think of her father, never named him,
and her outpouring was doubly prized by Robert, whose listening face drew
her on.

'I was too much of a child to understand how fearfully weak he must have
been, for he could not come home from the castle without a rest on that
stile, and we used to play round him, and bring him flowers. My best
recollections are all of that last summer--it seems like my whole life at
home, and much longer than it could really have been. We were all in all
to one another. How different it would have been if he had lived! I
think no one has believed in me since.'

There was something ineffably soft and sad in the last words, as the
beautiful, petted, but still lonely orphan cast down her eyelids with a
low long sigh, as though owning her errors, but pleading this
extenuation. Robert, much moved, was murmuring something incoherent, but
she went on. 'Rashe does, perhaps. Can't you see how it is a part of
the general disbelief in me to suppose that I come here only for London
seasons, and such like? I must live where I have what the dear old soul
there has not got to give.'

'You cannot doubt of her affection. I am sure there is nothing she would
not do for you.'

'"Do!" that is not what I want. It can't be done, it must be _felt_, and
that it never will be. When there's a mutual antagonism, gratitude
becomes a fetter, intolerable when it is strained.'

'I cannot bear to hear you talk so; revering