had been wanting to press his attentions on Miss Ashton.  The truth was, as none had known better than Val Elster, Mr. Graves had wanted to press them years and years ago.  He had at length made her an offer, and she had angrily refused him.  A foolish girl! said indignant Mrs. Graves, reproachfully.  Her son was a model son, and would make a model husband; and he would be a wealthy man, as Anne knew, for he must sooner or later come into the entailed property of his uncle.  It was not at all pleasant to Lord Hartledon to stand there in his pew, with recollection upon him, and the gaze of the Ashtons studiously turned from him, and Jabez Gum looking out at him from the corners of his eyes as he made his sonorous responses.  A wish for reconciliation took strong possession of Lord Hartledon, and he wondered whether he could not bring himself to sue for it.  He wanted besides to stay for the after-service, which he had not done since he was a young man—­never since his marriage.  Maude had stayed occasionally, as was the fashion; but he never.  I beg you not to quarrel with me for the word; some of the partakers in that after-service remain from no higher motive.  Certainly poor Maude had not.

On the third Sunday, Lord Hartledon went to church in the evening—­alone; and when service was over he waited until the church had emptied itself, and then made his way into the vestry.  Jabez was passing out of it, and the Rector was coming out behind him.  Lord Hartledon stopped the latter, and craved a minute’s conversation.  Dr. Ashton bowed rather stiffly, put his hat down, and Jabez shut them in.

“Is there any service you require of me?” inquired the Rector, coldly.

It was the impulsive Val Elster of old days who answered; his hand held out pleadingly, his ingenuous soul shining forth from his blue eyes.

“Yes, there is, Doctor Ashton; I have come to pray for it—­your forgiveness.”

“My Christian forgiveness you have had already,” returned the clergyman, after a pause.

“But I want something else.  I want your pardon as a man; I want you to look at me and speak to me as you used to do.  I want to hear you call me ‘Val’ again; to take my hand in yours, and not coldly; in short, I want you to help me to forgive myself.”

In that moment—­and Dr. Ashton, minister of the gospel though he was, could not have explained it—­all the old love for Val Elster rose bubbling in his heart.  A stubborn heart withal, as all hearts are since Adam sinned; he did not respond to the offered hand, nor did his features relax their sternness in spite of the pleading look.

“You must be aware, Lord Hartledon, that your conduct does not merit pardon.  As to friendship—­which is what you ask for—­it would be incompatible with the distance you and I must observe towards each other.”

“Why need we observe it—­if you accord me your true forgiveness?”

The question was one not easy to respond to candidly.  The doctor could not say, Your intercourse with us might still be dangerous to the peace of one heart; and in his inner conviction he believed that it might be.  He only looked at Val; the yearning face, the tearful eyes; and in that moment it occurred to the doctor that something more than the ordinary wear and tear of life had worn the once smooth brow, brought streaks of silver to the still luxuriant hair.