“I meant that if my grandfather could be led to express himself in a way which Mr. Boyce could accept, even if there were no great friendship as there used to be, there might be something better than this—­this, which—­which—­is so painful.  And any way, Miss Boyce, whatever happens, will you let me say this once, that there is no word, no feeling in this neighbourhood—­how could there be?—­towards you and your mother, but one of respect and admiration?  Do believe that, even if you feel that you can never be friendly towards me and mine again—­or forget the things I have said!”

“Respect and admiration!” said Marcella, wondering, and still scornful.  “Pity, perhaps.  There might be that.  But any way mamma goes with papa.  She always has done.  She always will.  So shall I, of course.  But I am sorry—­horribly sore and sorry!  I was so delighted to come here.  I have been very little at home, and understood hardly anything about this worry—­not how serious it was, nor what it meant.  Oh!  I am sorry—­there was so much I wanted to do here—­if anybody could only understand what it means to me to come to this place!”

They had reached the brow of a little rising ground.  Just below them, beyond a stubble field in which there were a few bent forms of gleaners, lay the small scattered Tillage, hardly seen amid its trees, the curls of its blue smoke ascending steadily on this calm September morning against a great belt of distant beechwood which begirt the hamlet and the common along which it lay.  The stubble field was a feast of shade and tint, of apricots and golds shot with the subtlest purples and browns; the flame of the wild-cherry leaf and the deeper crimson of the haws made every hedge a wonder; the apples gleamed in the cottage garden; and a cloudless sun poured down on field and hedge, and on the half-hidden medley of tiled roofs, sharp gables, and jutting dormers which made the village.

Instinctively both stopped.  Marcella locked her hands behind her in a gesture familiar to her in moments of excitement; the light wind blew back her dress in soft, eddying folds; for the moment, in her tall grace, she had the air of some young Victory poised upon a height, till you looked at her face, which was, indeed, not exultant at all, but tragic, extravagantly tragic, as Aldous Raeburn, in his English reserve, would perhaps have thought in the case of any woman with tamer eyes and a less winning mouth.

“I don’t want to talk about myself,” she began.  “But you know, Mr. Raeburn—­you must know—­what a state of things there is here—­you know what a disgrace that village is.  Oh! one reads books, but I never thought people could actually live like that—­here in the wide country, with room for all.  It makes me lie awake at night.  We are not rich—­we are very poor—­the house is all out of repair, and the estate, as of course you know, is in a wretched condition.  But when I see these cottages, and