‘Nic,’ she wrote on, ’what a cosmopolite you are!  I expected to find my old yeoman still; but I was quite awed in the presence of such a citizen of the world.  Did I seem rusty and unpractised?  Ah—­you seemed so once to me!’

Tender playful words; the old Christine was in them.  She said Sunday afternoon, and it was now only Saturday morning.  He wished she had said to-day; that short revival of her image had vitalized to sudden heat feelings that had almost been stilled.  Whatever she might have to explain as to her position—­and it was awkwardly narrowed, no doubt—­he could not give her up.  Miss Everard or Mrs. Bellston, what mattered it?—­she was the same Christine.

He did not go outside the inn all Saturday.  He had no wish to see or do anything but to await the coming interview.  So he smoked, and read the local newspaper of the previous week, and stowed himself in the chimney-corner.  In the evening he felt that he could remain indoors no longer, and the moon being near the full, he started from the inn on foot in the same direction as that of yesterday, with the view of contemplating the old village and its precincts, and hovering round her house under the cloak of night.

With a stout stick in his hand he climbed over the five miles of upland in a comparatively short space of time.  Nicholas had seen many strange lands and trodden many strange ways since he last walked that path, but as he trudged he seemed wonderfully like his old self, and had not the slightest difficulty in finding the way.  In descending to the meads the streams perplexed him a little, some of the old foot-bridges having been removed; but he ultimately got across the larger water-courses, and pushed on to the village, avoiding her residence for the moment, lest she should encounter him, and think he had not respected the time of her appointment.

He found his way to the churchyard, and first ascertained where lay the two relations he had left alive at his departure; then he observed the gravestones of other inhabitants with whom he had been well acquainted, till by degrees he seemed to be in the society of all the elder Froom-Everard population, as he had known the place.  Side by side as they had lived in his day here were they now.  They had moved house in mass.

But no tomb of Mr. Bellston was visible, though, as he had lived at the manor-house, it would have been natural to find it here.  In truth Nicholas was more anxious to discover that than anything, being curious to know how long he had been dead.  Seeing from the glimmer of a light in the church that somebody was there cleaning for Sunday he entered, and looked round upon the walls as well as he could.  But there was no monument to her husband, though one had been erected to the Squire.

Nicholas addressed the young man who was sweeping.  ’I don’t see any monument or tomb to the late Mr. Bellston?’

‘O no, sir; you won’t see that,’ said the young man drily.