"I am afraid poor--" She was going to say that she feared

Winterborne--the giver of the purse years before--had not much

perseverance, though he had all the other three; but she determined to

go no further in this direction, and was silent.

These half-revelations made a perceptible difference in Fitzpiers. His

sense of personal superiority wasted away, and Grace assumed in his

eyes the true aspect of a mistress in her lover's regard.

"Miss Melbury," he said, suddenly, "I divine that this virtuous man you

mention has been refused by you?"

She could do no otherwise than admit it.

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"I do not inquire without good reason. God forbid that I should kneel

in another's place at any shrine unfairly. But, my dear Miss Melbury,

now that he is gone, may I draw near?"

"I--I can't say anything about that!" she cried, quickly. "Because when

a man has been refused you feel pity for him, and like him more than

you did before."

This increasing complication added still more value to Grace in the

surgeon's eyes: it rendered her adorable. "But cannot you say?" he

pleaded, distractedly.

"I'd rather not--I think I must go home at once."

"Oh yes," said Fitzpiers. But as he did not move she felt it awkward

to walk straight away from him; and so they stood silently together. A

diversion was created by the accident of two birds, that had either

been roosting above their heads or nesting there, tumbling one over the

other into the hot ashes at their feet, apparently engrossed in a

desperate quarrel that prevented the use of their wings. They speedily

parted, however, and flew up, and were seen no more.

"That's the end of what is called love!" said some one.

The speaker was neither Grace nor Fitzpiers, but Marty South, who

approached with her face turned up to the sky in her endeavor to trace

the birds. Suddenly perceiving Grace, she exclaimed, "Oh, Miss

Melbury! I have been following they pigeons, and didn't see you. And

here's Mr. Winterborne!" she continued, shyly, as she looked towards

Fitzpiers, who stood in the background.

"Marty," Grace interrupted. "I want you to walk home with me--will

you? Come along." And without lingering longer she took hold of Marty's

arm and led her away.

They went between the spectral arms of the peeled trees as they lay,

and onward among the growing trees, by a path where there were no oaks,

and no barking, and no Fitzpiers--nothing but copse-wood, between

which the primroses could be discerned in pale bunches. "I didn't know

Mr. Winterborne was there," said Marty, breaking the silence when they

had nearly reached Grace's door.




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