“Still, if it cures your heartaches?” she persisted.

“Mine are of a different character, I think!”—­and the smile in his eyes deepened, as he looked down at her wistfully upturned face,—­“I am getting old,—­you are still young.  That makes all the difference.  My aches can be soothed by philosophy,—­yours could only be charmed away by—­”

He broke off abruptly.  The hot blood rose to his temples, and retreated again, leaving him very pale.

She looked at him earnestly.

“Well!—­by what?”

“I imagine you know, Miss Vancourt!  There is only one thing that can ease the burden of life for a woman, and that is—­love!”

She nodded her fair head sagaciously.

“Of course!  But that is just what I shall never have,—­so it’s no use wanting it.  I had better learn to read Greek at once, without delay!  When shall I come for my first lesson?”

She laughed unforcedly now, as she looked up at him.  They were walking side by side out of the churchyard.

“You are much too busy to learn Greek,” he said, laughing with her.  “Your London friends claim all your time,—­much to the regret of our little village.”

“Ah!—­but they won’t be with me very long now,”—­she rejoined—­ “They’ll all go after the dinner next week, except Louis Gigue.  Gigue is coming for a day or two and he will perhaps stay on a bit to give lessons to Cicely.  But he’s not a society man.  Oh, dear no!  Quite the contrary—­he’s a perfect savage!—­and says the most awful things!  Poor old Gigue!”

She laughed again, and looked happier and brighter than she had done for days.

“You have rather spoilt the villagers,” went on Walden, as he opened the churchyard gate for her to pass out, and closed it again behind them both.  “They’ve got accustomed to seeing you look in upon them at all hours,—­and, of course, they miss you.  Little Ipsie Frost especially frets after you.”

“I’ll go and see her very, very soon,” said Maryllia, impulsively; “Dear little thing!  When you see her next, tell her I’m coming, won’t you?”

“I will,” he rejoined,—­then paused, looking at her earnestly.  “Your friends must find St. Rest a very old-fashioned, world-forgotten sort of place,”—­he continued—­“And you must, equally, find it difficult to amuse them?”

“Well, perhaps, just a little,” she admitted—­“The fact is—­but tell it not in Gath—­I was happier without them!  They bore me to death!  All the same they really mean to be very nice,—­they don’t care, of course, for the things I care about,—­trees and flowers and books and music,—­but then I am always such an impossible person!”

“Are you?” His eyes were full of gentleness as he put this question--"I should not have thought that!”

She coloured a little—­then changed the subject.

“You have seen Lady Beaulyon, haven’t you?” He bent his head in the affirmative—­“Isn’t she lovely?”