towards manhood, our love of Lily came between us, and
we grew more and more apart. It is a common case enough. Well, as it
chanced he failed, so why should I think unkindly of him? Let me rather
remember the affection of our childhood and forget the rest. God rest
his soul.

Mary, my sister, who after Lily Bozard was now the fairest maiden in the
country side, wept much at my going. There was but a year between us,
and we loved each other dearly, for no such shadow of jealousy had
fallen on our affection. I comforted her as well as I was able, and
telling her all that had passed between me and Lily, I prayed her to
stand my friend and Lily's, should it ever be in her power to do so.
This Mary promised to do readily enough, and though she did not give the
reason, I could see that she thought it possible that she might be able
to help us. As I have said, Lily had a brother, a young man of some
promise, who at this time was away at college, and he and my sister Mary
had a strong fancy for each other, that might or might not ripen into
something closer. So we kissed and bade farewell with tears.

And after that my father and I rode away. But when we had passed down
Pirnhow Street, and mounted the little hill beyond Waingford Mills to
the left of Bungay town, I halted my horse, and looked back upon the
pleasant valley of the Waveney where I was born, and my heart grew full
to bursting. Had I known all that must befall me, before my eyes beheld
that scene again, I think indeed that it would have burst. But God, who
in his wisdom has laid many a burden upon the backs of men, has saved
them from this; for had we foreknowledge of the future, I think that of
our own will but few of us would live to see it. So I cast one long last
look towards the distant mass of oaks that marked the spot where Lily
lived, and rode on.

On the following day I embarked on board the 'Adventuress' and we
sailed. Before I left, my father's heart softened much towards me, for
he remembered that I was my mother's best beloved, and feared also lest
we should meet no more. So much did it soften indeed, that at the last
hour he changed his mind and wished to hold me back from going. But
having put my hand to the plough and suffered all the bitterness
of farewell, I would not return to be mocked by my brother and my
neighbours. 'You speak too late, father,' I said. 'You desired me to go
to work this vengeance and stirred me to it with many bitter words,