footsteps and
swung round. As though turned to stone, he waited for them. As they
approached, his lips, dry and pale, essayed to speak, but no sound came.
A fire was in his eyes which boded no good. Amazement, horror, deadly
anger, were all there, but, after a moment, the will behind the tumult
commanded it, the wild light died away, and he stood calm and still
awaiting them. Faith was as pale as when she had met Eglington. As she
came nearer, Luke Claridge said, in a low voice:

"How do I find thee in this company, Faith?" There was reproach
unutterable in his voice, in his face. He seemed humiliated and shamed,
though all the while a violent spirit in him was struggling for the
mastery.

"As I came this way to visit my sister's grave I met my lord by the
mill. He spoke to me, and, as I wished a favour of him, I walked with
him thither--but a little way. I was going to visit my sister's grave."

"Thy sister's grave!" The fire flamed up again, but the masterful will
chilled it down, and he answered: "What secret business can thee have
with any of that name which I have cast out of knowledge or notice?"

Ignorant as he was of the old man's cause for quarrel or dislike,
Eglington felt himself aggrieved, and, therefore, with an advantage.

"You had differences with my father, sir," he said. "I do not know
what they were, but they lasted his lifetime, and all my life you have
treated me with aversion. I am not a pestilence. I have never wronged
you. I have lived your peaceful neighbour under great provocation, for
your treatment would have done me harm if my place were less secure. I
think I have cause for complaint."

"I have never acted in haste concerning thee, or those who went before
thee. What business had thee with him, Faith?" he asked again. His voice
was dry and hard.

Her impulse was to tell the truth, and so for ever have her conscience
clear, for there would never be any more need for secrecy. The wheel of
understanding between Eglington and herself had come full circle, and
there was an end. But to tell the truth would be to wound her father, to
vex him against Eglington even as he had never yet been vexed. Besides,
it was hard, while Eglington was there, to tell what, after all, was
the sole affair of her own life. In one literal sense, Eglington was
not guilty of deceit. Never in so many words had he said to her: "I love
you;" never had he made any promise to her or exacted one; he had done
no more