‘Apt to entice a deity.’

On this account, and for the first time in his life, Owen made a point of concealing from her the real state of his feelings with regard to the unhappy transaction.  He writhed in secret under the humiliation to which they had been subjected, till the resentment it gave rise to, and for which there was no vent, was sometimes beyond endurance; it induced a mood that did serious damage to the material and plodding perseverance necessary if he would secure permanently the comforts of a home for them.

They gave up their lodgings at Budmouth, and went to Tolchurch as soon as the work commenced.

Here they were domiciled in one half of an old farmhouse, standing not far from the ivy-covered church tower (which was all that was to remain of the original structure).  The long steep roof of this picturesque dwelling sloped nearly down to the ground, the old tiles that covered it being overgrown with rich olive-hued moss.  New red tiles in twos and threes had been used for patching the holes wrought by decay, lighting up the whole harmonious surface with dots of brilliant scarlet.

The chief internal features of this snug abode were a wide fireplace, enormous cupboards, a brown settle, and several sketches on the wood mantel, done in outline with the point of a hot poker —­the subjects mainly consisting of old men walking painfully erect, with a curly-tailed dog behind.

After a week or two of residence in Tolchurch, and rambles amid the quaint scenery circumscribing it, a tranquillity began to spread itself through the mind of the maiden, which Graye hoped would be a preface to her complete restoration.  She felt ready and willing to live the whole remainder of her days in the retirement of their present quarters:  she began to sing about the house in low tremulous snatches—­

     ’”—­I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
       A heart that is humble may hope for it here."’

2.  THE THIRD OF MARCH

Her convalescence had arrived at this point on a certain evening towards the end of the winter, when Owen had come in from the building hard by, and was changing his muddy boots for slippers, previously to sitting down to toast and tea.

A prolonged though quiet knocking came to the door.

The only person who ever knocked at their door in that way was the new vicar, the prime mover in the church-building.  But he was that evening dining with the Squire.

Cytherea was uneasy at the sound—­she did not know why, unless it was because her nerves were weakened by the sickness she had undergone.  Instead of opening the door she ran out of the room, and upstairs.

‘What nonsense, Cytherea!’ said her brother, going to the door.

Edward Springrove stood in the grey light outside.

‘Capital—­not gone to Australia, and not going, of course!’ cried Owen.  ’What’s the use of going to such a place as that?—­I never believed that you would.’