and now let me pause a while and think. ten years have passed since the time of which i write. i am a woman, twenty-nine years old—a woman in judgment as well as in years, for many things have happened since then which have taught me more than the mere passage of time. and i can see clearly enough now that what i am going to tell happened through no fault of others; my pain and my disappointment were the result only of my own mistake; let me state that as a fact—it will be a satisfaction to my own conscience. i never had any excuse for that mistake. i was a foolish, passionate, romantic girl, and out of the whirlwind of my own love i conjured up the answering love that i craved; but it was never there—it was a phantom of my own making.

a month had passed since joyce had come home, since that night when trayton harrod and i stood under the abbey eaves in the lightning and the storm—a long, long summer's month. the hay had all been gathered in long ago, and the harvest was golden and ready for the reaping; the plain that had once been so green was growing mellower every day; the thick, reedy grass that blooms with a rich dark tassel upon our marsh made planes of varied brown tints over the flatness of the pastures—the whole land was warm with color; the gray castle lay sleeping upon the flaxen turf, with the gray beach beyond; the white sheep cropped lazily what blades they could find; between the two lines of tall rushes yellow and white water-lilies floated upon the dikes, and meadowsweet bloomed upon their banks; the scarlet poppies had faded from the cornfields, and the little harvest-mouse built her nest upon the tall ears of wheat.

every sign told that the summer would soon be fading into autumn; the young broods were all abroad long ago; the swallows and the martins were preparing for a second hatching; the humming of the snipe, as his tardy mate sat on her nest, made a pleasant bleating sound along the dikes near to the sea; the swift, first of all birds to leave us, would soon be taking her southward flight; on the beach the yellow sea-poppies bloomed amid their pale green leaves.

there had been the same little trouble over the bringing of reaping and threshing machines onto the farm as there had been over the mowing. poor father did not appear to be reconciled to these innovations, although he seemed to have made up his mind to give in to trayton harrod up to a certain point; he had not, however, wavered an inch on the subject of the length of the laborers' working-hours; on that he and the bailiff still preserved an ill-concealed attitude of hostility.

i did what i could to preserve the peace, so did mother, so did we all; but i don't think that father grew to like trayton harrod any better as time went on. i think he respected him thoroughly. more than once, i recollect, he took occasion to observe that he was an upright and honorable man, and yet, somehow, he scarcely seemed even to thoroughly trust him.

i know, at least, that one morning about this time he called me into his study and bade me ride into town at once with a letter for mr. hoad, which i was to deliver privately into his own hands, letting nobody know my errand. three months ago how proud i should have been of this trust, which might have been given to the man who had been called in to supplant me! but now i did not like it; it filled me with apprehensions, with misgivings, with anger at the slight to him.

"are you afraid to go, meg?" father had asked, seeing me hesitate. "i'll go myself."

the word must have lit up my gray eyes with the light that he was wont to laugh at, for he put down his stick and sank into his chair.

"there," said he, patting my cheek, "i thought she hadn't lost her pride."

and neither had i; but the strangeness of the request, and the strangeness of mr. hoad's face as he read the letter, set me thinking most uncomfortably all the way home. nor was it only on that occasion that i had need to ponder somewhat anxiously on matters that were not my own.

a sunday morning about this time comes back to my mind. father had been up to london during the week on one or two matters of business. it was an event in those days for a farmer to go up to london. to father it was specially an event, for he always had been a more than usually stay-at-home man. but there must have been some special reason that took him up; he had seemed disquieted for some time.

i had fancied that it was purely on account of that scheme that frank forrester had not yet succeeded in floating, and i was angry with frank for that cooling down which i have noticed as happening in him whenever he got away from the fiery influence. i was angry with joyce for not keeping him up to his first ardor, angry with mother for not allowing them to correspond, so that she might do so. but after all, i don't believe that father's uneasiness was entirely owing to frank forrester, for his journey to london was suddenly decided upon one afternoon after he and mr. hoad had had a long talk together in the business-room. father had seen harrod afterwards, and had then announced his proposed journey at the tea-table.

he had been away only two days; but although he said that he had been made a great deal of by the old friend with whom he had stayed, and though he declared that frank was just the same as ever, and it was therefore to be supposed that they had been as good comrades as usual, father looked none the better for his little change. as we all stood up in the old church to say the creed, i remember noticing how ill he looked.

it was not only that he bent his tall, massive figure over the desk, leaning heavily upon it with both hands, as if for needful support; it was not even that his cheeks were more sunken, and that he bowed his head wearily; it was that in his dull eyes and set lips there was an air of suffering, of dejection and hopelessness, that was pathetic even to me who should have known nothing of pathos at nineteen. it struck me with sad forebodings, and those words of the squire's a few weeks before came back to my mind.

i glanced at mother's face—beautiful and serene as ever—with the little net-work of delicate wrinkles spread over its soft surface, and the blue eyes content as a young girl's beneath the shadow of the thick white hair. it was what joyce's face might grow to be some day, although at that time there were lines of character about the mouth which my sister's beauty lacked; it was what my face could never grow to. but surely neither of those two had any misgivings. "and the life of the world to come," repeated mother, gravely, saying the words a little after everybody else in a kind of conclusive way. but, somehow, i wondered whether she had really been thinking of what they meant, for she sat down again with almost a smile upon her lips and smoothed out her soft old black brocade without any air of undue solemnity.

i glanced at joyce. her eyes were bent down looking at her hands—large, well-shaped, useful hands, that looked better in the dairy or at her needle than they did in ill-fitting kid-gloves; her face was undisturbed, the lovely little chin resting on the white bow of the ribbon that tied on her fresh chip-bonnet. it was before the days when it was considered respectable to go to church in a hat.

i, too, had a white chip-bonnet—joyce had brought them both from london, together with the blue merino frocks, which we also wore that day; but i did not look as well in a chip-bonnet as joyce did.

i glanced along the row of pews. at the end of the one parallel with ours across the aisle sat reuben in his clean smock, his fine old parchment-colored face set in the quiet lines induced by sleepiness and the suitable mood for the occasion. deborah, as i have said, came rarely to church; she always declared that a deafness, which i had never noticed in her, made the coming but a mere form, for "what was the use if you couldn't extinguish the parson?" but reuben was a pious and constant attendant, and looked better in keeping with the place than did the owner of two keen gray eyes, just beyond him, that i noticed were fixed upon my sister's face.

they were withdrawn as soon as i turned my head, although they did not look at me, but i paid no further attention to the service that day, and for all the good i got of the sermon i might as well have stayed at home.

and yet we had a fine discourse—or so father said as we came out of church—for it was from the curate of the next parish, that young mr. cyril morland, to whom he had taken such a fancy, and it was for the ragged schools, and touched on father's subject in father's own way. if i had cared to look round at him again i should have seen that his weary eyes had regained all their usual fire, and that his head was raised gazing at the impassioned young speaker.

but i did not look at father again. i sat with my eyes fixed on the old tombstone at my right, on which reposed the mail-clad figure of an ancient knight; and, for aught i knew or cared, the preacher might have been the sleepy old vicar himself, clearing his throat and humbly enunciating his well-worn sentiments. i don't remember just what my thoughts were—perhaps i could not have put them into words even then; but i know they were not of god, nor of the poor little wretched children for whom our charity was asked. when the plate came round at the end it awoke me from a dream; ah me! it was not a good dream nor a happy dream. i wondered if people were often so wicked in church.

when the service was over father went round to the back and took up little david jarrett, whom he had carried into church. the little fellow was supposed to be better, but he did not look as though he would be long for this world, and i think he grew nearer every day to father's heart.

the vicar's young wife spoke to him as he went out in father's arms.

"you've got a very kind friend, david," she said to the child, in her weak, whining voice. "i hope you're very grateful."

a smile came over the little pinched face. the boy did not reply, but he put his arm round father's neck to make the burden easier, and looked into his eyes.

"i'm going to take you to the grange to-day for a bit of roast beef, david. what do you say?" asked father.

"i should like to go to the grange," said david, without making any allusion to the roast beef.

"come, you youngster," said the squire, coming down the path with mary thorne, and speaking in his hearty, healthy voice, "isn't that leg of yours well enough yet for you to walk alone and not trouble a poor old man?"

the child flushed scarlet, and father said, in a vexed tone, "i'm not so very old yet, squire, but i can carry a poor little cripple a couple of hundred yards."

the squire had spoken only in joke, and he said so; it was his way, for in reality he was as kind a man as father himself, but i don't think father forgave him for quite a little while.

"well, did you see anything of that good-for-nothing nephew of mine up in london?" asked the squire again.

we were all standing round in a little group, as folk are wont to do coming out of church, when they rarely get time to meet on week-days. mother was talking to that aggressive old lady, miss farnham; joyce stood at her side. i could not see harrod anywhere, but it was just like him to have disappeared; he hated a concourse of people.

"oh, come, mr. broderick, i don't think you ought to take away a poor fellow's character when he's absent," laughed mary thorne, in her jolly way. "here's miss maliphant," added she, pointing at joyce, "might be prejudiced against him by it, and he thinks a very great deal of what miss maliphant's opinion of him may be, i assure you."

she said it in a good-natured, bantering kind of way, but not at all as if she guessed at the real relations that existed between joyce and her childhood's friend.

the squire frowned, and mother turned away from miss farnham.

"now, miss thorne, i should take it very kindly if you wouldn't bring my girl into it," said she. "i'm an old-fashioned woman, and i don't hold with jokes of that sort."

mary looked rather surprised, but it was just like mother to speak up like that; she never was afraid of anything or anybody, although she did seem so gentle.

"ah, i often have my suspicions that mrs. maliphant is a good old tory at heart," said the squire, trying to turn the matter off lightly.

"no, no, squire, don't you try to make more out of my words than's in them," declared mother, shaking her head. "i never was for politics. i make neither head nor tail of them."

of course everybody laughed at this, and the squire added, "i'll be bound frank won't show himself till after we have got my friend farnham in for the county."

"he said nothing about coming down," said father, who had withdrawn from the group since the thornes had joined it, and stood by the old stone wall, on which he had rested little david; "but i don't think that's the reason."

"he'd have been down before now to torment me about those new stables unless there were something particular keeping him away," went on mr. broderick. "he keeps writing to me about them, but i tell him i'll have the men and women housed before the dogs and horses. there are two new cottages wanted on the estate, and they're going to be done first."

"ah, you're a decent sort of landlord; they're few enough like you," declared miss farnham, nodding her ever-bugled head before she turned up her black silk gown over her white petticoat, and trudged off across the church-yard; "and that's a sight better than going about making mischief, as some seditious folk must needs do."

this was a parting thrust at father, but he did not seem to have even noticed it.

"mother, i'll just take the little chap home," said he. "you get hold of mr. morland, and ask him to come and have a bit of dinner with us, will you?"

the squire looked after him. "you oughtn't to let him carry that child about, mrs. maliphant," said he. "he's not the man he was."

"oh, squire, what a job's comforter you are, to be sure!" sighed mother, half fretfully. "why, i think laban's quite himself again since the summer weather has come in. he's a bit cast down to-day, i've noticed it myself; but that's in his spirits. i don't think that trip to london did him any good. those railways are tiring things, and then i can't help fancying he's a bit disappointed about this notion of his for getting the charity school, or whatever it is. he's so set on those things. i tell him it's a pity. he wears himself out and neglects his own work. and no offence to you, squire, that young nephew of yours isn't so smart about it as he might be. i always warned laban against putting too much trust in him. not that he has said anything, but if matters were going as he wants, he would have had something to say, you see. the young man seemed just as eager about it as my old one once upon a time, but young folks haven't the grit."

mother made the whole of this long speech in a confidential manner to the squire, but i heard every word of it. so must joyce have done, for she and mary thorne had been talking, and were standing side by side, but she gave no sign at all, although mary said, with a loud laugh: "is that frank you're talking of? why, dear me, you don't expect him to hold long to one thing, do you? the squire knows him better than that. as jolly an old chap as ever was, but never of the same mind for ten minutes together; at least," added she, quite gravely for her, "not about things of that sort. dear me, i know at least five things he has taken up wildly for the time being, and wearied of in six months."

the squire smiled a little maliciously. "there's a bit of truth in that," he agreed, "though i don't know that i could have told it off so glibly. oh, miss mary, miss mary, what a wicked tongue you have got!"

i fancied she looked distressed. "come, who was it stood up for him just now?" cried she. "you can't call black white because you happen to like a person."

he laughed. i couldn't help thinking that he was very well pleased with what she had said, and i thought it was very unkind of him. as for me, i was furious with the girl. i had always liked her before, but that day i positively hated her. what business had she to go telling tales about frank?

it never occurred to me for a moment that she might possibly have a reason for wanting to set joyce against frank, for making her think that his liking for people as well as for pursuits was of a very transitory nature.

i went home in a very bad temper. why was i so specially angry now every time that joyce was lukewarm where her absent lover was concerned? i had often secretly accused her in my heart of being lukewarm before. she was not of a forthcoming temperament; she never had expressed her emotions freely, and she never would do so; it was not in her nature.

why did it trouble me more now than it used to do? why did it trouble me so much that, when i reflected that joyce had not said a single word during the whole of that scene, i could not find it in my heart to speak to her?

a month ago i should have scolded her for letting mother awe her into silence—i should have laughed at her for her timidity. but that day i could not.

i let her go up-stairs alone into our little bedroom to take off her bonnet, and found an excuse to lay mine aside down-stairs.

i heard the rev. cyril morland talking the management of the ragged schools over with father, and considering his suggestions of improvement. at any other time i should have been proud to notice the deference that he showed to the old man. i should have liked to listen to the comparison of their ideas and plans. but then i was afraid.

the pity of suffering, the zeal for succoring it, seemed to me so much more akin between the curate and father than they had ever really been between him and frank.

i could not bear to acknowledge it, yet i could not but instinctively feel that it was so.

i did not guess at possible rocks and quicksands of creeds that might be ahead in any intercourse between father and his new friend, but i felt that in him was the spirit of endurance and self-sacrifice which, girl as i was, i could not but fear was lacking in the sympathizing, sympathetic nature of my sister's lover. it was only since he had been at the grange the last time that i had begun to fear it; but after that, that waxing and waning in the heat of his enterprise was apparent even to me.

i felt that mother was right when she said that you knew where you were with a man who had troubled himself to put some of his ideas into practice, and could not blame her for being glad that father had put his scheme into the hands of one who had shown that he could work as well as talk. i could not blame her; she had no reason for making excuses for frank forrester; on the contrary, she had every reason for wishing father to see him in what she called his true colors, so that their intercourse should be at an end.

but i—i had a reason best known to myself for wishing to strengthen every little thread that could bind frank to father and the grange. and even though this fervent young curate should turn out to be that man of whom frank himself had spoken—he who was the "right man to do the work"—i could not like him. how could i like any one who showed signs of taking frank's place with father?

i sat silent at the board, and well deserved mother's just reproof afterwards for my lapse into the old, ill-mannered ways out of which she hoped i was growing.

i was cross—i was cross with joyce; but it was unjustly so, and i felt it. when i had said my prayers that night i went up and kissed her where she lay with her golden heaps of hair upon the white pillow.