“Revenged!  What nonsense!  It is simple justice—­justice to himself and to others—­to see that villainy is so sufficiently punished as to deter others from entering upon such courses.  But I have little doubt Mr. Wilkins has taken the right steps; he is not the man to sit down quietly under such a loss.”

“No, indeed! he had him advertised in the Times and in the county papers, and offered a reward of twenty pounds for information concerning him.”

“Twenty pounds was too little.”

“So I said.  I told Ellinor that I would give twenty pounds myself to have him apprehended, and she, poor darling! fell a-trembling, and said, ‘I would give all I have—­I would give my life.’  And then she was in such distress, and sobbed so, I promised her I would never name it to her again.”

“Poor child—­poor child! she wants change of scene.  Her nerves have been sadly shaken by her illness.”

The next day was Sunday; Ellinor was to go to church for the first time since her illness.  Her father had decided it for her, or else she would fain have stayed away—­she would hardly acknowledge why, even to herself, but it seemed to her as if the very words and presence of God must there search her and find her out.

She went early, leaning on the arm of her lover, and trying to forget the past in the present.  They walked slowly along between the rows of waving golden corn ripe for the harvest.  Mr. Corbet gathered blue and scarlet flowers, and made up a little rustic nosegay for her.  She took and stuck it in her girdle, smiling faintly as she did so.

Hamley Church had, in former days, been collegiate, and was, in consequence, much larger and grander than the majority of country-town churches.  The Ford Bank pew was a square one, downstairs; the Ford Bank servants sat in a front pew in the gallery, right before their master.  Ellinor was “hardening her heart” not to listen, not to hearken to what might disturb the wound which was just being skinned over, when she caught Dixon’s face up above.  He looked worn, sad, soured, and anxious to a miserable degree; but he was straining eyes and ears, heart and soul, to hear the solemn words read from the pulpit, as if in them alone he could find help in his strait.  Ellinor felt rebuked and humbled.

She was in a tumultuous state of mind when they left church; she wished to do her duty, yet could not ascertain what it was.  Who was to help her with wisdom and advice?  Assuredly he to whom her future life was to be trusted.  But the case must be stated in an impersonal form.  No one, not even her husband, must ever know anything against her father from her.  Ellinor was so artless herself, that she had little idea how quickly and easily some people can penetrate motives, and combine disjointed sentences.  She began to speak to Ralph on their slow, sauntering walk homewards through the quiet meadows: 

“Suppose, Ralph, that a girl was engaged to be married—­”