I see the farm producing so little in comparison, I may say, in confidence, poverty; but Sophia has sufficient income of her own.”  “I did not know that,” said Trenholme, sincerely.  “She came with us, for we couldn’t think of taking any of it for the house expenses if she was away; and, as it’s not large, it’s the more sacrifice she makes.  But Sophia—­Sophia might have been a very rich woman if she’d married the man she was engaged to.  Mr. Monekton was only too anxious to settle everything upon her.”

Trenholme had positively started at these words.  He did not hear the next remark.  The eight years just passed of Sophia’s life were quite unknown to him, and this was a revelation.  He began to hear the talk again.

“My husband said the jointure was quite remarkable.  And then the carriages and gowns he would have given!  You should have seen the jewels she had!  And poor Mr. Monekton—­it was one month off the day the wedding was fixed, for when she broke it off.  Suddenly she would have none of it.”

Trying to piece together these staccato jottings by what he knew of the character of his love, Trenholme’s mind was sore with curiosity about it all, especially with regard to the character of Mr. Monckton.

“Perhaps”—­he spoke politely, as if excusing the fickleness of the absent woman—­“perhaps some fresh knowledge concerning the gentleman reached Miss Rexford.”

“For many a year we had known all that was to be known about Mr. Monckton,” declared the mother, vigorously.  “Sophia changed her mind.  It was four years ago, but she might be Mrs. Monckton in a month if she’d say the word.  He has never been consoled; her father has just received a letter from him to-day begging him to renew the subject with her; but when Sophia changes once she’s not likely to alter again.  There’s not one in a thousand to equal her.”

Trenholme agreed perfectly with the conclusion, even if he did not see that it was proved by the premises.  He went away with his mind much agitated and filled with new anxieties.  The fact that she had once consented to marry another seemed to him to make it more probable that she might do so again.  He had allowed himself to assume that since the time when he had seen her as a young girl, the admired of all, Sophia had drifted entirely out of that sort of relation to society; but now, by this sudden alarm, she seemed to be again elevated on some pinnacle of social success beyond his reach.  It struck him, too, as discouraging that he should be able to know so little about a girl he had loved in a vague way so long, and now for a time so ardently, and who had dwelt for months at his very door.  He blamed the conventionalities of society that made it impossible for him to ask her the thousand and one questions he fain would ask, that refused him permission to ask any until he was prepared to make that offer which involved the explanation from which he shrank so much