“What has happened, Miss Fairman?” I asked immediately.

“Do I betray my weakness, then?” she answered.  “I am sorry for it; for dear papa tells all the villagers that no wise man weeps—­and no wise woman either, I suppose.  But I cannot help it.  We are but a small family in the village, and it makes me very sad to miss the old faces one after another, and to see old friends dropping and dropping into the silent grave.”

As she spoke the church-bell tolled, and she turned pale, and ceased.  I offered her my arm, and we walked on.

“Whom do you mourn, Miss Fairman?” I asked at length.

“A dear good friend—­my best and oldest.  When poor mamma was dying, she made me over to her care.  She was her nurse, and was mine for years.  It is very wrong of me to weep for her.  She was good and pious, and is blest.”

The church-bell tolled again, and my companion shuddered.

“Oh!  I cannot listen to that bell,” she said.  “I wish papa would do away with it.  What a withering sound it has!  I heard it first when it was tolling for my dear mother.  It fell upon my heart like iron then, and it falls so now.”

“I cannot say that I dislike the melancholy chime.  Death is sad.  Its messenger should not be gay.”

“It is the soul that sees and hears.  Beauty and music are created quickly if the heart be joyful.  So my book says, and it is true.  You have had no cause to think that bell a hideous thing.”

“Yet I have suffered youth’s severest loss.  I have lost a mother.”

“You speak the truth.  Yes, I have a kind father left me—­and you”—­

“I am an orphan, friendless and deserted.  God grant, Miss Fairman, you may be spared my fate for years.”

“Not friendless or deserted either, Mr Stukely,” answered the young lady kindly; “papa does not deserve, I am sure, that you should speak so harshly.”

“Pardon me, Miss Fairman.  I did not mean to say that.  He has been most generous to me—­kinder than I deserve.  But I have borne much, and still must bear.  The fatherless and motherless is in the world alone.  He needs no greater punishment.”

“You must not talk so.  Papa will, I am sure, be a father to you, as he is to all who need one.  You do not know him, Mr Stukely.  His heart is overflowing with tenderness and charity.  You cannot judge him by his manner.  He has had his share of sorrow and misfortune; and death has been at his door oftener than once.  Friends have been unfaithful and men have been ungrateful; but trial and suffering have not hardened him.  You have seen him amongst the poor, but you have not seen him as I have; nor have I beheld him as his Maker has, in the secret workings of his spirit, which is pure and good, believe me.  He has received injury like a child, and dealt mercy and love with the liberality of an angel.  Trust my father, Mr Stukely.”—­

The maiden spoke quickly and passionately, and her neck and face crimsoned with animation.  I quivered, for her tones communicated fire—­but my line of conduct was marked, and it shone clear in spite of the clouds of emotion which strove to envelope and conceal it—­as they did too soon.