She tried to meet the meaning of that sentence with a steady look, but broke down, and as the warm blood surged across her face, bent her eyes to the water again.  For myself, I knew of nothing to say in extenuation of my speech.  My lips would have cried her mercy, but no words came.  I fell to rowing harder, and the silence that fell upon us was unbroken.  The sun sank and suddenly the earth grew cold and grey, the piping of the birds died wholly out, the water-flags shivered and whispered before the footsteps of night.  Slowly, very slowly the twilight hung its curtains around us.  Swiftly, too swiftly the quiet village drew near, but my thoughts were neither of the village nor the night.  As I sat and pulled silently upwards, life was entirely changing for me.  Old thoughts, old passions, old aims and musings slipped from me and swept off my soul as the darkening river swept down into further night.

“Streatley!  So soon!  We are in time, then.”

Humbly my heart thanked her for those words, “So soon.”  I gave her my hand to help her ashore, and, as I did so, said—­

“You will forgive me?”

“For getting wet in my service?  What is there to forgive?”

Oh, cruelly kind!  The moon was up now and threw its full radiance on her face as she turned to go.  My eyes were speaking imploringly, but she persisted in ignoring their appeal.

“You often come here?”

“Oh, no!  Sunday is my holiday; I am not so idle always.  But mother loves to come here on Sundays.  Ah, how I have neglected her to-day!” There was a world of self-reproach in her speech, and again she would have withdrawn her hand and gone.

“One moment,” said I, hoarsely.  “Will you—­can you—­tell me your name?”

There was a demure smile on her face as the moon kissed it, and—­

“They call me Claire,” she said.

“Claire,” I murmured, half to myself.

“And yours?” she asked.

“Jasper—­Jasper Trenoweth.”

“Then good-bye, Mr. Jasper Trenoweth.  Goodbye, and once more I thank you.”

She was gone; and standing stupid and alone I watched her graceful figure fade into the shadow and take with it the light and joy of my life.

“Jasper,” said Tom, as I lounged into our wretched garret, “have you ever known what it is to suffer from the responsibility of wealth?  I do not mean a few paltry sovereigns; but do you know what it is to live with, say, three thousand four hundred and sixty-five pounds thirteen and sixpence on your conscience?”

“No,” I said; “I cannot say that I have.  But why that extraordinary sum?”

“Because that is the sum which has been hanging all day around me as a mill-stone.  Because that is the exact amount which at present makes me fear to look my fellow-man in the face.”

I simply stared.

“Jasper, you are singularly dense, or much success has turned your brain.  Say, Jasper, that success has not turned your brain.”