through your hands—”

“And inevitably tear your gloves to pieces,” said Miss Holmes.  Kate certainly had done so, and did not seem to be particularly well pleased with the accident.  “There’s a nasty nail in the chain,” she said.  “I wonder those stupid boys did not tell us.”

Of course they reached the trysting-place much too soon, and were very tired of walking up and down to keep their feet warm, before the sportsmen came up.  But this was their own fault, seeing that they had reached the stile half an hour before the time fixed.

“I never will go anywhere to meet gentlemen again,” said Miss Holmes.  “It is most preposterous that ladies should be left in the snow for an hour.  Well, young men, what sport have you had?”

“I shot the big black cock,” said Harry.

“Did you indeed?” said Kate Coverdale.

“And here are the feathers out of his tail for you.  He dropped them in the water, and I had to go in after them up to my middle.  But I told you that I would, so I was determined to get them.”

“Oh, you silly, silly boy,” said Kate.  “But I’ll keep them for ever.  I will indeed.”  This was said a little apart, for Harry had managed to draw the young lady aside before he presented the feathers.

Frank had also his trophies for Patty, and the tale to tell of his own prowess.  In that he was a year older than his brother, he was by a year’s growth less ready to tender his present to his lady-love, openly in the presence of them all.  But he found his opportunity, and then he and Patty went on a little in advance.  Kate also was deep in her consolations to Harry for his ducking; and therefore the four disposed of themselves in the manner previously suggested by Miss Holmes.  Miss Holmes, therefore, and her brother, and Bessy Garrow, were left together in the path, and discussed the performances of the day in a manner that elicited no very ecstatic interest.  So they walked for a mile, and by degrees the conversation between them dwindled down almost to nothing.

“There is nothing I dislike so much as coming out with people younger than myself,” said Miss Holmes.  “One always feels so old and dull.  Listen to those children there; they make me feel as though I were an old maiden aunt, brought out with them to do propriety.”

“Patty won’t at all approve if she hears you call her a child.”

“Nor shall I approve, if she treats me like an old woman,” and then she stepped on and joined the children.  “I wouldn’t spoil even their sport if I could help it,” she said to herself.  “But with them I shall only be a temporary nuisance; if I remain behind I shall become a permanent evil.”  And thus Bessy and her old lover were left by themselves.

“I hope you will get on well with Bella,” said Godfrey, when they had remained silent for a minute or two.

“Oh, yes.  She is so good-natured and light-spirited that everybody must like her.  She has been used to so much amusement and active life, that I know she must find it very dull here.”

“She is never dull anywhere,—even at Liverpool, which, for a young lady, I sometimes think the dullest place on earth.  I know it is for a man.”

“A man who has work to do can never be dull; can he?”

“Indeed he can; as dull as death.  I am so often enough.  I have never been very bright there, Bessy, since you left us.”

There was nothing in his calling her Bessy, for it had become a habit with him since they were children; and they had formerly agreed that everything between them should be as it had been before that foolish whisper of love had been spoken and received.  Indeed, provision had been made by them specially on this point, so that there need be no awkwardness in this mode of addressing each other.  Such provision had seemed to be very prudent, but it hardly had the desired effect on the present occasion.

“I hardly know what you mean by brightness,” she said, after a pause.  “Perhaps it is not intended that people’s lives should be what you call bright.”

“Life ought to be as bright as we can make it.”

“It all depends on the meaning of the word.  I suppose we are not very bright here at Thwaite Hall, but yet we think ourselves very happy.”

“I am sure you are,” said Godfrey.  “I very often think of you here.”

“We always think of places where we have been when we were young,” said Bessy; and then again they walked on for some way in silence, and Bessy began to increase her pace with the view of catching the children.  The present walk to her was anything but bright, and she bethought herself with dismay that there were still two miles before she reached the Ferry.

“Bessy,” Godfrey said at last.  And then he stopped as though he were doubtful how to proceed.  She, however, did not say a word, but walked on quickly, as though her only hope was in catching the party before her.  But they also were walking quickly, for Bella was determined that she would not be caught.

“Bessy, I must speak to you once of what passed between us at Liverpool.”

“Must you?” said she.

“Unless you positively forbid it.”

“Stop, Godfrey,” she said.  And they did stop in the path, for now she no longer thought of putting an end to her embarrassment by overtaking her companions.  “If any such words are necessary for your comfort, it would hardly become me to forbid them.  Were I to speak so harshly you would accuse me afterwards in your own heart.  It must be for you to judge whether it is well to reopen a wound that is nearly healed.”

“But with me it is not nearly healed.  The wound is open always.”

“There are some hurts,” she said, “which do not admit of an absolute and perfect cure, unless after long years.”  As she said so, she could not but think how much better was his chance of such perfect cure than her own.  With her,—so she said to herself,—such curing was all but impossible; whereas with him, it was as impossible that the injury should last.

“Bessy,” he said, and he again stopped her on the narrow path, standing immediately before her on the way, “you remember all the circumstances that made us part?”

“Yes; I think I remember them.”

“And you still think that we were right to part?”

She paused for a moment before she answered him; but it was only for a moment, and then she spoke quite firmly.  “Yes, Godfrey, I do; I have thought about it much since then.  I have thought, I fear, to no good purpose about aught else.  But I have never thought that we had been unwise in that.”

“And yet I think you loved me.”

“I am bound to confess I did so, as otherwise I must confess myself a liar.  I told you at the time that I loved you, and I told you so truly.  But it is better, ten times better, that those who love should part, even though they still should love, than that two should be joined together who are incapable of making each other happy.  Remember what you told me.”

“I do remember.”

“You found yourself unhappy in your engagement, and you said it was my fault.”

“Bessy, there is my hand.  If you have ceased to love me, there is an end of it.  But if you love me still, let all that be forgotten.”

“Forgotten, Godfrey!  How can it be forgotten?  You were unhappy, and it was my fault.  My fault, as it would be if I tried to solace a sick child with arithmetic, or feed a dog with grass.  I had no right to love you, knowing you as I did; and knowing also that my ways would not be your ways.  My punishment I understand, and it is not more than I can bear; but I had hoped that your punishment would have been soon over.”

“You are too proud, Bessy.”

“That is very likely.  Frank says that I am a Puritan, and pride was the worst of their sins.”

“Too proud and unbending.  In marriage should not the man