Innocent's voice faltered here—then she said—"That is the end. He signed it 'Amadis.'"

Robin was very quiet for a minute or two.

"It's pretty—very pretty and touching—and all that sort of thing," he said at last—"but it's like some old sonnet or mediaeval bit of romance. No one would go on like that nowadays."

Innocent lifted her eyebrows, quizzically.

"Go on like what?"

He moved impatiently.

"Oh, about being patient in solitude with one's soul, and saying farewell to love." He gave a short laugh. "Innocent dear, I wish you would see the world as it really is!—not through the old- style spectacles of the Sieur Amadis! In his day people were altogether different from what they are now."

"I'm sure they were!" she answered, quietly—"But love is the same to-day as it was then."

He considered a moment, then smiled.

"No, dear, I'm not sure that it is," he said. "Those knights and poets and curious people of that kind lived in a sort of imaginary ecstasy—they exaggerated their emotions and lived at the top- height of their fancies. We in our time are much more sane and level-headed. And it's much better for us in the long run."

She made no reply. Only very gently she withdrew her hand from his.

"I'm not a knight of old," he went on, turning his handsome, sun- browned face towards her,—"but I'm sure I love you as much as ever the Sieur Amadis could have loved his unknown lady. So much indeed do I love you that I couldn't write about it to save my life!—though I did write verses at Oxford once—very bad ones!" He laughed. "But I can do one thing the Sieur Amadis didn't do—I can keep faithful to my Vision of the glory unattainable'—and if I don't marry you I'll marry no-body—so there!"

She looked at him curiously and wistfully.

"You will not be so foolish," she said—"You will not put me into the position of the Sieur Amadis, who married some one who loved him, merely out of pity!"

He sprang up from the grass beside her.

"No, no! I won't do that, Innocent! I'm not a coward! If you can't love me, you shall not marry me, just because you are sorry for me! That would be intolerable! I wouldn't have you for a wife at all under such circumstances. I shall be perfectly happy as a bachelor—perhaps happier than if I married."

"And what about Briar Farm?" she asked.

"Briar Farm can get on as best it may!" he replied, cheerily— "I'll work on it as long as I live and hand it down to some one worthy of it, never fear! So there, Innocent!—be happy, and don't worry yourself! Keep to your old knight and your strange fancies about him—you may be right in your ideas of love, or you may be wrong; but the great point with me is that you should be happy— and if you cannot be happy in my way, why you must just be happy in your own!"

She looked at him with a new interest, as he stood upright, facing her in all the vigour and beauty of his young manhood. A little smile crept round the corners of her mouth.

"You are really a very handsome boy!" she said—"Quite a picture in your way! Some girl will be very proud of you!"

He gave a movement of impatience.

"I must go back to the orchard," he said—"There's plenty to do. And after all, work's the finest thing in the world—quite as fine as love—perhaps finer!"

A faint sense of compunction moved her at his words—she was conscious of a lurking admiration for his cool, strong, healthy attitude towards life and the things of life. And yet she was resentful that he should be capable of considering anything in the world "finer" than love. Work? What work? Pruning trees and gathering apples? Surely there were greater ambitions than these? She watched him thoughtfully under the fringe of her long eyelashes, as he moved off.

"Going to the orchard?" she asked.

"Yes."

She smiled a little.

"That's right!"

He glanced back at her. Had she known how bravely he restrained himself she might have made as much a hero of him as of the knight Amadis. For he was wounded to the heart—his brightest hopes were frustrated, and at the very instant he walked away from her he would have given his life to have held her for a moment in his arms,—to have kissed her lips, and whispered to her the pretty, caressing love-nonsense which to warm and tender hearts is the sweetest language in the world. And with all his restrained passion he was irritated with what, from a man's point of view, he considered folly on her part,—he felt that she despised his love and himself for no other reason than a mere romantic idea, bred of loneliness and too much reading of a literature alien to the customs and manners of the immediate time, and an uncomfortable premonition of fear for her future troubled his mind.

"Poor little girl!" he thought—"She does not know the world!—and when she DOES come to know it—ah, my poor Innocent!—I would rather she never knew!"

Meanwhile she, left to herself, was not without a certain feeling of regret. She was not sure of her own mind—and she had no control over her own fancies. Every now and then a wave of conviction came over her that after all tender-hearted old Priscilla might be right—that it would be best to marry Robin and help him to hold and keep Briar Farm as it had ever been kept and held since the days of the Sieur Amadis. Perhaps, had she never heard the story of her actual condition, as told her by Farmer Jocelyn on the previous night, she might have consented to what seemed so easy and pleasant a lot in life; but now it seemed to her more than impossible. She no longer had any link with the far- away ancestor who had served her so long as a sort of ideal—she was a mere foundling without any name save the unbaptised appellation of Innocent. And she regarded herself as a sort of castaway.

She went into the house soon after Robin had left her, and busied herself with sorting the linen and looking over what had to be mended. "For when I go," she said to herself, "they must find everything in order." She dined alone with Priscilla—Robin sent word that he was too busy to come in. She was a little piqued at this—and almost cross when he sent the same message at tea-time, —but she was proud in her way and would not go out to see if she could persuade him to leave his work for half-an-hour. The sun was slowly declining when she suddenly put down her sewing, struck by a thought which had not previously occurred to her—and ran fleetly across the garden to the orchard, where she found Robin lying on his back under the trees with closed eyes. He opened them, hearing the light movement of her feet and the soft flutter of her gown—but he did not rise. She stopped—looking at him.

"Were you asleep?"

He stretched his arms above his head, lazily.

"I believe I was!" he answered, smiling.

"And you wouldn't come in to tea!" This with a touch of annoyance.

"Oh yes, I would, if I had wanted tea," he replied—"but I didn't want it."

"Nor my company, I suppose," she added, with a little shrug of her shoulders. His eyes flashed mischievously.

"Oh, I daresay that had something to do with it!" he agreed.

A curious vexation fretted her. She wished he would not look so handsome—and—yes!—so indifferent. An impression of loneliness and desertion came over her—he, Robin, was not the same to her now—so she fancied—no doubt he had been thinking hard all the day while doing his work, and at last had come to the conclusion that it was wisest after all to let her go and cease to care for her as he had done. A little throbbing pulse struggled in her throat—a threat of rising tears,—but she conquered the emotion and spoke in a voice which, though it trembled, was sweet and gentle.

"Robin," she said—"don't you think—wouldn't it be better— perhaps—"

He looked up at her wonderingly—she seemed nervous or frightened.

"What is it?" he asked—"Anything you want me to do?"

"Yes"—and her eyes drooped—"but I hardly like to say it. You see, Dad made up his mind this morning that we were to settle things together—and he'll be angry and disappointed—"

Robin half-raised himself on one arm.

"He'll be angry and disappointed if we don't settle it, you mean," he said—"and we certainly haven't settled it. Well?"

A faint colour flushed her face.

"Couldn't we pretend it's all right for the moment?" she suggested—"Just to give him a little peace of mind?"

He looked at her steadily.

"You mean, couldn't we deceive him?"

"Yes!—for his good! He has deceived ME all my life,—I suppose for MY good—though it has turned out badly—"

"Has it? Why?"

"It has left me nameless," she answered,—"and friendless."

A sudden rush of tears blinded her eyes—she put her hands over them. He sprang up and, taking hold of her slender wrists, tried to draw those hands down. He succeeded at last, and looked wistfully into her face, quivering with restrained grief.

"Dear, I will do what you like!" he said. "Tell me—what is your wish?"

She waited a moment, till she had controlled herself a little.

"I thought"—she said, then—"that we might tell Dad just for to- night that we are engaged—it would make him happy—and perhaps in a week or two we might get up a quarrel together and break it off—"

Robin smiled.

"Dear little girl!—I'm afraid the plan wouldn't work! He wants the banns put up on Sunday—and this is Wednesday."

Her brows knitted perplexedly.

"Something can be managed before then," she said. "Robin, I cannot bear to disappoint him! He's old—and he's so ill too!—it wouldn't hurt us for one night to say we are engaged!"

"All right!"—and Robin threw back his head and laughed joyously— "I don't mind! The sensation of even imagining I'm engaged to you is quite agreeable! For one evening, at least, I can assume a sort of proprietorship over you! Innocent! I—I—"

He looked so mirthful and mischievous that she smiled, though the teardrops still sparkled on her lashes.

"Well? What are you thinking of now?" she asked.

"I think—I really think—under the circumstances I ought to kiss you!" he said—"Don't you feel it would be right and proper? Even on the stage the hero and heroine ACT a kiss when they're engaged!"

She met his laughing glance with quiet steadfastness.

"I cannot act a kiss," she said—"You can, if you like! I don't mind."

"You don't mind?"

"No."

He looked from right to left—the apple-boughs, loaded with rosy fruit, were intertwined above them like a canopy—the sinking sun made mellow gold of all the air, and touched the girl's small figure with a delicate luminance—his heart beat, and for a second his senses swam in a giddy whirl of longing and ecstasy—then he suddenly pulled himself together.

"Dear Innocent, I wouldn't kiss you for the world!" he said, gently—"It would be taking a mean advantage of you. I only spoke in fun. There!—dry your pretty eyes!—you sweet, strange, romantic little soul! You shall have it all your own way!"

She drew a long breath of evident relief.

"Then you'll tell your uncle—"

"Anything you like!" he answered. "By-the-bye, oughtn't he to be home by this time?"

"He may have been kept by some business," she said—"He won't be long now. You'll say we're engaged?"

"Yes."

"And perhaps"—went on Innocent—"you might ask him not to have the banns put up yet as we don't want it known quite so soon—"

"I'll do all I can," he replied, cheerily—"all I can to keep him quiet, and to make you happy! There! I can't say more!"

Her eyes shone upon him with a grateful tenderness.

"You are very good, Robin!"

He laughed.

"Good! Not I! But I can't bear to see you fret—if I had my way you should never know a moment's trouble that I could keep from you. But I know I'm not a patch on your old stone knight who wrote such a lot about his 'ideal'—and yet went and married a country wench and had six children. Don't frown, dear! Nothing will make me say he was romantic! Not a bit of it! He wrote a lot of romantic things, of course—but he didn't mean half of them!—I'm sure he didn't!"

She coloured indignantly.

"You say that because you know nothing about it," she said—"You have not read his writings."

"No—and I'm not sure that I want to," he answered, gaily. "Dear Innocent, you must remember that I was at Oxford—my dear old father and mother scraped and screwed every penny they could get to send me there—and I believe I acquitted myself pretty well— but one of the best things I learned was the general uselessness and vanity of the fellows that called themselves 'literary.' They chiefly went in for disparaging and despising everyone who did not agree with them and think just as they did. Mulish prigs, most of them!" and Robin laughed his gay and buoyant laugh once more— "They didn't know that I was all the time comparing them with the honest type of farmer—the man who lives an outdoor life with God's air blowing upon him, and the soil turned freshly beneath him!—I love books, too, in my way, but I love Nature better."

"And do not poets help you to understand Nature?" asked Innocent.

"The best of them do—such as Shakespeare and Keats and Tennyson, —but they were of the past. The modern men make you almost despise Nature,—more's the pity! They are always studying THEMSELVES, and analysing THEMSELVES, and pitying THEMSELVES—now I always say, the less of one's self the better, in order to understand other people."

Innocent's eyes regarded him with quiet admiration.

"Yes, you are a thoroughly good boy," she said—"I have told you so often. But—I'm not sure that I should always get on with anyone as good as you are!"

She turned away then, and moved towards the house. As she went, she suddenly stopped and clapped her hands, calling:

"Cupid! Cupid! Cu-COO-pid!"

A flash of white wings glimmered in the sunset-light, and her pet dove flew to her, circling round and round till it dropped on her outstretched arm. She caught it to her bosom, kissing its soft head tenderly, and murmuring playful words to it. Robin watched her, as with this favourite bird-playmate she disappeared across the garden and into the house. Then he gave a gesture half of despair, half of resignation—and left the orchard.

The sun sank, and the evening shadows began to steal slowly in their long darkening lines over the quiet fields, and yet Farmer Jocelyn had not yet returned. The women of the household grew anxious—Priscilla went to the door many times, looking up the tortuous by-road for the first glimpse of the expected returning vehicle—and Innocent stood in the garden near the porch, as watchful as a sentinel and as silent. At last the sound of trotting hoofs was heard in the far distance, and Robin, suddenly making his appearance from the stable-yard where he too had been waiting, called cheerily,—

"Uncle at last! Here he comes!"

Another few minutes and the mare's head turned the corner—then the whole dog-cart came into view with Farmer Jocelyn driving it. But he was quite alone.

Robin and Innocent exchanged surprised glances, but had no time to make any comment as old Hugo just then drove up and, throwing the reins to his nephew, alighted.

"Aren't you very late, Dad?" said Innocent then, going to meet him—"I was beginning to be quite anxious!"

"Were you? Poor little one! I'm all right! I had business—I was kept longer than I expected—" Here he turned quickly to Robin— "Unharness, boy!—unharness!—and come in to supper!"

"Where's Landon?" asked Robin.

"Landon? Oh, I've left him in the town."

He pulled off his driving-gloves, and unbuttoned his overcoat— then strode into the house. Innocent followed him—she was puzzled by his look and manner, and her heart beat with a vague sense of fear. There was something about the old man that was new and strange to her. She could not define it, but it filled her mind with a curious and inexplicable uneasiness. Priscilla, who was setting the dishes on the table in the room where the cloth was laid for supper, had the same uncomfortable impression when she saw him enter. His face was unusually pale and drawn, and the slight stoop of age in his otherwise upright figure seemed more pronounced than usual. He drew up his chair to the table and sat down,—then ruffling his fine white hair over his brow with one hand, looked round him with an evidently forced smile.

"Anxious about me, were you, child?" he said, as Innocent took her place beside him. "Well, well! you need not have given me a thought! I—I was all right—all right! I made a bit of a bargain in the town—but the prices were high—and Landon—"

He broke off suddenly and stared in front of him with strange fixed eyeballs.

Innocent and Priscilla looked at one another in alarm. There was a moment's tense stillness,—then Innocent said in rather a trembling voice—

"Yes, Dad? You were saying something about Landon—"

The stony glare faded from his eyes and he looked at her with a more natural expression.

"Landon? Did I speak of him? Oh yes!—Landon met with some fellows he knew and decided to spend the evening with them—he asked me for a night off—and I gave it to him. Yes—I—I gave it to him."

Just then Robin entered.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, gaily—"At supper? Don't begin without me! I say, Uncle, is Landon coming back to-night?"

Jocelyn turned upon him sharply.

"No!" he answered, in so fierce a tone that Robin stood amazed— "Why do you all keep on asking me about Landon? He loves drink more than life, and he's having all he wants to-night. I've let him off work to-morrow."

Robin was silent for a moment out of sheer surprise.

"Oh well, that's all right, if you don't mind," he said, at last— "We're pretty busy—but I daresay we can manage without him."

"I should think so!" and Hugo gave a short laugh of scorn—"Briar Farm would have come to a pretty pass if it could not get on without a man like Landon!"

There was another silent pause.

Priscilla gave an anxious side-glance at Innocent's troubled face, and decided to relieve the tension by useful commonplace talk.

"Well, Landon or no Landon, supper's ready!" she said, briskly— "and it's been waiting an hour at least. Say grace, Mister Jocelyn, and I'll carve!"

Jocelyn looked at her bewilderedly.

"Say grace?" he queried—"what for?"

Priscilla laughed loudly to cover the surprise she felt.

"What for? Lor, Mister Jocelyn, if you don't know I'm sure I don't! For the beef and potatoes, I suppose, an' all the stuff we eats—'for what we are going to receive—'"

"Ah, yes! I remember—'May the Lord make us truly thankful!'" responded Jocelyn, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them again—"And I'll tell you what, Priscilla!—there's a deal more to be thankful for to-night than beef and potatoes!—a great deal more!"



CHAPTER VII

The supper was a very silent meal. Old Hugo was evidently not inclined to converse,—he ate his food quickly, almost ravenously, without seeming to be conscious that he was eating. Robin Clifford glanced at him now and again watchfully, and with some anxiety,— an uncomfortable idea that there was something wrong somewhere worried him,—moreover he was troubled by the latent feeling that presently his uncle would be sure to ask if all was "settled" between himself and Innocent. Strangely enough, however, the old man made no allusion to the subject. He seemed to have forgotten it, though it had been the chief matter on which he had laid so much stress that morning. Each minute Innocent expected him to turn upon her with the dreaded question—to which she would have had to reply untruly, according to the plan made between herself and Robin. But to her great surprise and relief he said nothing that conveyed the least hint of the wish he had so long cherished. He was irritable and drowsy,—now and again his head fell a little forward on his chest and his eyes closed as though in utter weariness. Seeing this, the practical Priscilla made haste to get the supper finished and cleared away.

"You be off to bed, Mister Jocelyn," she said,—"The sooner the better, for you look as tired as a lame dog that 'as limped 'ome twenty miles. You ain't fit to be racketing about markets an' drivin' bargains."

"Who says I'm not?" he interrupted, sitting bolt upright and glaring fiercely at her—"I tell you I am! I can do business as well as any man—and drive a bargain-ah! I should think so indeed!—a hard-and-fast bargain!—not easy to get out of, I can tell you!—not easy to get out of! And it has cost me a pretty penny, too!"

Robin Clifford glanced at him enquiringly.

"How's that?" he asked—"You generally make rather than spend!"

Jocelyn gave a sudden loud laugh.

"So I do, boy, so I do! But sometimes one has to spend to make! I've done both to-day—I've made and I've spent. And what I've spent is better than keeping it—and what I've made—ay!—what I've made—well!—it's a bargain, and no one can say it isn't a fair one!"

He got up from the supper table and pushed away his chair.

"I'll go," he said—"Priscilla's right—I'm dog-tired and bed's the best place for me." He passed his hand over his forehead. "There's a sort of buzzing in my brain like the noise of a cart- wheel—I want rest." As he spoke Innocent came softly beside him and took his arm caressingly. He looked down upon her with a smile. "Yes, wilding, I want rest! We'll have a long talk out tomorrow—you and I and Robin. Bless thee, child! Good-night!"

He kissed her tenderly and held out one hand to Clifford, who cordially grasped it.

"Good boy!" he said-"Be up early, for there's much to do—and Landon won't be home till late—no—not till late! Get on with the field work—for if the clouds mean anything we shall have rain." He paused a moment and seemed to reflect, then repeated slowly— "Yes, lad! We shall have rain!—and wind, and storm! Be ready!— the fine weather's breaking!"

With that he went, walking slowly, and they heard him stumble once or twice as he went up the broad oak staircase to his bedroom. Priscilla put her head on one side, like a meditative crow, and listened. Then she heaved a sigh, smoothed down her apron and rolled up her eyes.

"Well, if Mister Jocelyn worn't as sober a man as any judge an' jury," she observed—"I should say 'e'd bin drinkin'! But that ain't it. Mr. Robin, there's somethin' gone wrong with 'im—an' I don't like it."

"Nor I," said Innocent, in a trembling voice, suggestive of tears. "Oh, Robin, you surely noticed how strange he looked! I'm so afraid! I feel as if something dreadful was going to happen—"

"Nonsense!" and Robin assumed an air of indifference which he was far from feeling—"Uncle Hugo is tired—I think he has been put out—you know he's quick-tempered and easily irritated—he may have had some annoyance in the town—"

"Ah! And where's Landon?" put in Priscilla, with a dark nod—"That do beat me! Why ever the master should 'ave let a man like that go on the loose for a night an' a day is more than I can make out! It's sort of tempting Providence—that it is!"

Clifford flushed and turned aside. His fight with Landon was fresh in his mind—and he began to wonder whether he had done rightly in telling his uncle how it came about. But meeting Innocent's anxious eyes, which mutely asked him for comfort, he answered—

"Oh, well, there's nothing very much in that, Priscilla! I daresay Landon wanted a holiday—he doesn't ask for one often, and he's kept fairly sober lately. Hadn't we better be off to bed? Things will straighten out with the morning."

"Do you really think so?" Innocent sighed as she put the question.

"Of course I think so!" answered Robin, cheerily. "We're all tired, and can't look on the bright side! Sound sleep is the best cure for the blues! Good-night, Innocent!"

"Good-night!" she said, gently.

"Good-night, Priscilla!"

"Good-night, Mr. Robin. God bless ye!"

He smiled, nodded kindly to them both, and left the room.

"There's a man for ye!" murmured Priscilla, admiringly, as he disappeared—"A tower of strength for a 'usband, which the Lord knows is rare! Lovey, you'll never do better!"

But Innocent seemed not to hear. Her face was very pale, and her eyes had a strained wistful expression.

"Dad looks very ill," she said, slowly—"Priscilla, surely you noticed—"

"Now, child, don't you worry—'tain't no use"—and Priscilla lit two bedroom candles, giving Innocent one—"You just go up to bed and think of nothing till the morning. Mister Jocelyn is dead beat and put out about something—precious 'ungry too, for he ate his food as though he hadn't 'ad any all day. You couldn't expect him to be pleasant if he was wore out."

Innocent said nothing more. She gave a parting glance round the room to assure herself that everything was tidy, windows bolted and all safe for the night, and for a fleeting moment the impression came over her that she would never see it look quite the same again. A faint cold tremor ran through her delicate little body—she felt lonely and afraid. Silently she followed Priscilla up the beautiful Tudor staircase to the first landing, where, moved by a tender, clinging impulse, she kissed her.

"Good-night, you dear, kind Priscilla!" she said—"You've always been good to me!"

"Bless you, my lovey!" answered Priscilla, with emotion—"Go and sleep with the angels, like the little angel you are yourself! And mind you think twice, and more than twice, before you say 'No' to Mr. Robin!"

With a deprecatory shake of her head, and a faint smile, Innocent turned away, and passed through the curious tortuous little corridor that led to her own room. Once safely inside that quiet sanctum where the Sieur Amadis of long ago had "found peace," she set her candle down on the oak table and remained standing by it for some moments, lost in thought. The pale glimmer of the single light was scarcely sufficient to disperse the shadows around her, but the lattice window was open and admitted a shaft of moonlight which shed a pearly radiance on her little figure, clothed in its simple white gown. Had any artist seen her thus, alone and absorbed in sorrowful musing, he might have taken her as a model of Psyche after her god had flown. She was weary and anxious—life had suddenly assumed for her a tragic aspect. Old Jocelyn's manner had puzzled her—he was unlike himself, and she instinctively felt that he had some secret trouble on his mind. What could it be? she wondered. Not about herself and Robin—for were he as keen on "putting up the banns" as he had been in the morning he would not have allowed the matter to rest. He would have asked straight questions, and he would have expected plain answers,—and they would, in accordance with the secret understanding they had made with each other, have deceived him. Now there was no deception necessary—he seemed to have forgotten—at least for the present— his own dearest desire. With a sigh, half of pain, half of relief, she seated herself at the table, and opening its one deep drawer with a little key which she always wore round her neck, she began to turn over her beloved pile of manuscript, and this occupied her for several minutes. Presently she looked up, her eyes growing brilliant with thought, and a smile on her lips.

"I really think it might do!" she said, aloud—"I should not be afraid to try! Who knows what might happen? I can but fail—or succeed. If I fail, I shall have had my lesson—if I succeed—"

She leaned her head on her two hands, ruffling up her pretty hair into soft golden-brown rings.

"If I succeed!—ah!—if I do! Then I'll pay back everything I owe to Dad and Briar Farm!—oh, no! I can never pay back my debt to Briar Farm!—that would be impossible! Why, the very fields and trees and flowers and birds have made me happy!—happier than I shall ever be after I have said good-bye to them all!—good-bye even to the Sieur Amadis!"

Quick tears sprang to her eyes—and the tapering light of the candle looked blurred and dim.

"Yes, after all," she went on, still talking to the air, "it's better and braver to try to do something in the world, rather than throw myself upon Robin, and be cowardly enough to take him for a husband when I don't love him. Just for comfort and shelter and Briar Farm! It would be shameful. And I could not marry a man unless I loved him quite desperately!—I could not! I'm not sure that I like the idea of marriage at all,—it fastens a man and woman together for life, and the time might come when they would grow tired of each other. How cruel and wicked it would be to force them to endure each other's company when they perhaps wished the width of the world between them! No—I don't think I should care to be married—certainly not to Robin."

She put her manuscript by, and shut and locked the drawer containing it. Then she went to the open lattice window and looked out—and thought of the previous night, when Robin had swung himself up on the sill to talk to her, and they had been all unaware that Ned Landon was listening down below. A flush of anger heated her cheeks as she recalled this and all that Robin had told her of the unprepared attack Landon had made upon him and the ensuing fight between them. But now? Was it not very strange that Landon should apparently be in such high favour with Hugo Jocelyn that he had actually been allowed to stay in the market-town and enjoy a holiday, which for him only meant a bout of drunkenness? She could not understand it, and her perplexity increased the more she thought of it. Leaning far out over the window-sill, she gazed long and lovingly across the quiet stretches of meadowland, shining white in the showered splendour of the moon—the tall trees—the infinite and harmonious peace of the whole scene,— then, shutting the lattice, she pulled the curtains across it, and taking her lit candle, went to her secluded inner sleeping- chamber, where, in the small, quaintly carved four-poster bed, furnished with ancient tapestry and lavendered linen, and covered up under a quilt embroidered three centuries back by the useful fingers of the wife of Sieur Amadis de Jocelin, she soon fell into a sound and dreamless slumber.

The hours moved on, bearing with them different destinies to millions of different human lives, and the tall old clock in the great hall of Briar Farm told them off with a sonorous chime and clangour worthy of Westminster itself. It was a quiet night; there was not a breath of wind to whistle through crack or key-hole, or swing open an unbolted door,—and Hero, the huge mastiff that always slept "on guard" just within the hall entrance, had surely no cause to sit up suddenly on his great haunches and listen with uplifted ears to sounds which were to any other creature inaudible. Yet listen he did—sharply and intently. Raising his massive head he snuffed the air—then suddenly began to tremble as with cold, and gave vent to a long, low, dismal moan. It was a weird noise—worse than positive howling, and the dog himself seemed distressfully conscious that he was expressing something strange and unnatural. Two or three times he repeated this eerie muffled cry—then, lying down again, he put his nose between his great paws, and, with a deep shivering sigh, appeared to resign himself to the inevitable. There followed several moments of tense silence. Then came a sudden dull thud overhead, as of a heavy load falling or being thrown down, and a curious inexplicable murmur like smothered choking or groaning. Instantly the great dog sprang erect and raced up the staircase like a mad creature, barking furiously. The house was aroused—doors were flung open—Priscilla rushed from her room half dressed—and Innocent ran along the corridor in her little white nightgown, her feet bare, and her hair falling dishevelled over her shoulders.

"What is it?" she cried piteously—"Oh, do tell me! What is it?"

Robin Clifford, hearing the dog's persistent barking, had hastily donned coat and trousers and now appeared on the scene.

"Hero, Hero!" he called—"Quiet, Hero!"

But Hero had bounded to his master Jocelyn's door and was pounding against it with all the force of his big muscular body, apparently seeking to push or break it open. Robin laid one hand on the animal's collar and pulled him back—then tried the door himself— it was locked.

"Uncle Hugo!"

There was no answer.

He turned to one of the frightened servants who were standing near. His face was very pale.

"Fetch me a hammer," he said—"Something—anything that will force the lock. Innocent!"—and with deep tenderness he took her little cold hands in his own—"I wish you would go away!"

"Why?" and she looked at him with eyes full of terror. "Oh no, no! Let me be with you—let me call him!"—and she knelt outside the closed door—"Dad! Dear Dad! I want to speak to you! Mayn't I come in? I'm so frightened—do let me come in. Dad!"

But the silence remained unbroken.

"Priscilla!"—and Robin beckoned to her—"keep Innocent beside you—I'm afraid—"

Priscilla nodded, turning her head aside a moment to wipe away the tears that were gathering in her eyes,—then she put an arm round Innocent's waist.

"Don't kneel there, lovey," she whispered—"It's no good and you're in the way when they open the door. Come with me!—there's a dear!"—and she drew the trembling little figure tenderly into her arms. "There!—that'll be a bit warmer!" and she signed to one of the farm maids near her to fetch a cloak which she carefully wrapped round the girl's shoulders. Just then the hammer was brought with other tools, and Robin, to save any needless clamour, took a chisel and inserted it in such a manner as should most easily force the catch of the door—but the lock was an ancient and a strong one, and would not yield for some time. At last, with an extra powerful and dexterous movement of his hand, it suddenly gave way—and he saw what he would have given worlds that Innocent should not have seen—old Hugo lying face forward on the floor, motionless. There was a rush and a wild cry—

"Dad! Dad!"

She was beside him in a moment, trying with all her slight strength to lift his head and turn his face.

"Help me—oh, help me!" she wailed. "He has fainted—we must lift him—get some one to lift him on the bed. It is only a faint—he will recover—get some brandy and send for the doctor. Don't lose time!—for Heaven's sake be quick! Robin, make them hurry!"

Robin had already whispered his orders,—and two of the farm lads, roused from sleep and hastily summoned, were ready to do what he told them. With awed, hushed movements they lifted the heavy fallen body of their master between them and laid it gently down on the bed. As the helpless head dropped back on the pillow they saw that all was over,—the pinched ashen grey of the features and the fast glazing eyes told their own fatal story—there was no hope. But Innocent held the cold hand of the dead man to her warm young bosom, endeavouring to take from it its cureless chill.

"He will be better soon," she said,—"Priscilla, bring me that brandy—just a little will revive him, I'm sure. Why do you stand there crying? You surely don't think he's dead?—No, no, that isn't possible! It isn't possible, is it, Robin? He'll come to himself in a few minutes—a fainting fit may last quite a long time. I wish he had not locked his door—we could have been with him sooner."

So she spoke, tremblingly nursing the dead hand in her bosom. No one present had the heart to contradict her—and Priscilla, with the tears running down her face, brought the brandy she asked for and held it while she tenderly moistened the lips of the corpse and tried to force a few drops between the clenched teeth—in vain. This futile attempt frightened her, and she looked at Robin Clifford with a wild air.

"I cannot make him swallow it," she said—"Can you, Robin? He looks so grey and cold!—but his lips are quite warm."

Robin, restraining the emotion that half choked him and threatened to overflow in womanish weeping, went up to her and tried to coax her away from the bedside.

"Dear, if you could leave him for a little it would perhaps be better," he said. "He might—he might recover sooner. We have sent for the doctor—he will be here directly—"

"I will stay here till he comes," replied the girl, quietly. "How can you think I would leave Dad when he's ill? If we could only rouse him a little—"

Ah, that "if"! If we could only rouse our beloved ones who fall into that eternal sleep, would not all the riches and glories of the world seem tame in comparison with such joy! Innocent had never seen death—she could not realise that this calm irresponsiveness, this cold and stiffening rigidity, meant an end to the love and care she had known all her life—love and care which would never be replaced in quite the same way!

The first peep of a silver dawn began to peer through the lattice window, and as she saw this suggestion of wakening life, a sudden dread clutched at her heart and made it cold.

"It will be morning soon," she said—"Priscilla, when will the doctor come?"

Scarcely had she said the words when the doctor entered. He took a comprehensive glance round the room,—at the still form on the bed—at the little crouching girl—figure beside it—at Priscilla, trembling and tearful—at Robin, deadly pale and self-restrained— at the farm-lads and servants.

"When did this happen?" he said.

Robin told him.

"I see!" he said. "He must have fallen forward on getting out of bed. I rather expected a sudden seizure of this kind." He made his brief examination. The eyes of the dead man were open and glassily staring upward—he gently closed the lids over them and pressed them down.

"Nothing to be done," he went on, gently—"His end was painless."

Innocent had risen—she had laid the cold hand of the corpse back on its breast—and she stood gazing vacantly before her in utter misery.

"Nothing to be done?" she faltered—"Do you mean that you cannot rouse him? Will he never speak to me again?"

The doctor looked at her gravely and kindly.

"Not in this world, my dear," he said—"in the next—perhaps! Let us hope so!"

She put her hand up to her forehead with a bewildered gesture.

"He is dead!" she cried—"Dead! Oh, Robin, Robin! I can't believe it!—it isn't true! Dad, dear Dad! My only friend! Good-bye—good- bye, Dad!—good-bye, Briar Farm—good-bye to everything—oh, Dad!"

Her voice quavered and broke in a passion of tears.

"I loved him as if he were my own father," she sobbed. "And he loved me as if I were his own child! Oh, Dad, darling Dad! We can never love each other again!"



CHAPTER VIII

The news of Farmer Jocelyn's sudden death was as though a cloud- burst had broken over the village, dealing utter and hopeless destruction. To the little community of simple workaday folk living round Briar Farm it was a greater catastrophe than the death of any king. Nothing else was talked of. Nothing was done. Men stood idly about, looking at each other in a kind of stupefied consternation,—women chattered and whispered at their cottage doors, shaking their heads with all that melancholy profundity of wisdom which is not wise till after the event,—the children were less noisy in their play, checked by the grave faces of their parents—the very dogs seemed to know that something had occurred which altered the aspect of ordinary daily things. The last of the famous Jocelyns was no more! It seemed incredible. And Briar Farm? What would become of Briar Farm?

"There ain't none o' th' owd folk left now" said one man, lighting his pipe slowly—"It's all over an' done wi'. Mister Clifford, he's good enow—but he ain't a Jocelyn, though a Jocelyn were his mother. 'Tis the male side as tells. An' he's young, an' he'll want change an' rovin' about like all young men nowadays, an' the place'll be broke up, an' the timber felled, an' th' owd oak'll be sold to a dealer, an' Merrikans'll come an' buy the pewter an' the glass an' the linen, an' by-an'-bye we won't know there ever was such a farm at all—"

"That's your style o' thinkin', is it?" put in another man standing by, with a round straw hat set back upon his head in a, fashion which gave him the appearance of a village idiot—"Well, it's not mine! No, by no means! There'll be a Will,—an' Mister Robin he'll find a Way! Briar Farm'll allus be Briar Farm accordin' to MY mind!"

"YOUR mind ain't much," growled the first speaker—"so don't ye go settin' store by it. Lord, Lord! to think o' Farmer Jocelyn bein' gone! Seems as if a right 'and 'ad bin cut off! Onny yesterday I met 'im drivin' along the road at a tearin' pace, with Ned Landon sittin' beside 'im—an' drivin' fine too, for the mare's a tricky one with a mouth as 'ard as iron—but 'e held 'er firm—that 'e did!—no weakness about 'im—an' 'e was talkin' away to Landon while 'e drove, 'ardly lookin' right or left, 'e was that sure of hisself. An' now 'e's cold as stone—who would a' thort it!"

"Where's Landon?" asked the other man.

"I dunno. He's nowhere about this mornin' that I've seen."

At that moment a figure came into view, turning the corner of a lane at the end of the scattered thatched cottages called "the village,"—a portly, consequential-looking figure, which both men recognised as that of the parson of the parish, and they touched their caps accordingly. The Reverend William Medwin, M.A., was a great personage,—and his "cure of souls" extended to three other villages outlying the one of which Briar Farm was the acknowledged centre.

"Good-morning!" he said, with affable condescension—"I hear that Farmer Jocelyn died suddenly last night. Is it true?"

Both men nodded gravely.

"Yes, sir, it's true—more's the pity! It's took us all aback."

"Ay, ay!" and Mr. Medwin nodded blandly—"No doubt-no doubt! But I suppose the farm will go on just the same?—there will be no lack of employment?"

The man who was smoking looked doubtful.

"Nobuddy can tell—m'appen the place will be sold—m'appen it won't. The hands may be kept, or they may be given the sack. There's only Mr. Clifford left now, an' 'e ain't a Jocelyn."

"Does that matter?" and the reverend gentleman smiled with the superior air of one far above all things of mere traditional sentiment. "There is the girl—"

"Ah, yes! There's the girl!"

The speakers looked at one another.

"Her position," continued Mr. Medwin, meditatively tracing a pattern on the ground with the end of his walking-stick, "seems to me to be a little unfortunate. But I presume she is really the daughter of our deceased friend?"

The man who was smoking took the pipe from his mouth and stared for a moment.

"Daughter she may be," he said, "but born out o' wedlock anyhow— an' she ain't got no right to Briar Farm unless th' owd man 'as made 'er legal. An' if 'e's done that it don't alter the muddle, 'cept in the eyes o' the law which can twist ye any way—for she was born bastard, an' there's never been a bastard Jocelyn on Briar Farm all the hundreds o' years it's been standin'!"

Mr. Medwin again interested himself in a dust pattern.

"Ah, dear, dear!" he sighed—"Very sad, very sad! Our follies always find us out, if not while we live, then when we die! I'm sorry! Farmer Jocelyn was not a Churchman—no!—a regrettable circumstance!—still, I'm sorry! He was a useful person in the parish—quite honest, I believe, and a very fair and good master—"

"None better!" chorussed his listeners.

"True! None better. Well, well! I'll just go up to the house and see if I can be of any service, or—or comfort—-"

One of the men smiled darkly.

"Sartin sure Farmer Jocelyn's as dead as door-nails. If so be you are a-goin' to Briar Farm, Mr. Medwin!" he said—"Why, you never set foot in the place while 'e was a livin' man!"

"Quite correct!" and Mr. Medwin nodded pleasantly—"I make it a rule never to go where I'm not wanted." He paused, impressively,— conscious that he had "scored." "But now that trouble has visited the house I consider it my duty to approach the fatherless and the afflicted. Good-day!"

He walked off then, treading ponderously and wearing a composed and serious demeanour. The men who had spoken with him were quickly joined by two or three others.

"Parson goin' to the Farm?" they enquired.

"Ay!"

"We'll 'ave gooseberries growin' on hayricks next!" declared a young, rough-featured fellow in a smock—"anythin' can 'appen now we've lost the last o' the Jocelyns!"

And such was the general impression throughout the district. Men met in the small public-houses and over their mugs of beer discussed the possibilities of emigrating to Canada or New Zealand, for—"there'll be no more farm work worth doin' round 'ere"—they all declared—"Mister Jocelyn wanted MEN, an' paid 'em well for workin' LIKE men!—but it'll all be machines now."

Meanwhile, the Reverend Mr. Medwin, M.A., had arrived at Briar Farm. Everything was curiously silent. All the blinds were down— the stable-doors were closed, and the stable-yard was empty. The sunlight swept in broad slanting rays over the brilliant flower- beds which were now at their gayest and best,—the doves lay sleeping on the roofs of sheds and barns as though mesmerised and forbidden to fly. A marked loneliness clouded the peaceful beauty of the place—a loneliness that made itself seen and felt by even the most casual visitor.

With a somewhat hesitating hand Mr. Medwin pulled the door-bell. In a minute or two a maid answered the summons—her eyes were red with weeping. At sight of the clergyman she looked surprised and a little frightened.

"How is Miss—Miss Jocelyn?" he enquired, softly—"I have only just heard the sad news—"

"She's not able to see anyone, sir," replied the maid, tremulously—"at least I don't think so—I'll ask. She's very upset—"

"Of course, of course!" said Mr. Medwin, soothingly—"I quite understand! Please say I called! Mr. Clifford—"

A figure stepped out from the interior darkness of the shadowed hall towards him.

"I am here," said Robin, gently—"Did you wish to speak to me? This is a house of heavy mourning to-day!"

The young man's voice shook,—he was deadly pale, and there was a strained look in his eyes of unshed tears. Mr. Medwin was conscious of nervous embarrassment.

"Indeed, indeed I know it is!" he murmured—"I feel for you most profoundly! So sudden a shock too!—I—I thought that perhaps Miss Jocelyn—a young girl struck by her first great loss and sorrow, might like to see me—"

Robin Clifford looked at him in silence for a moment. The consolations of the Church! Would they mean anything to Innocent? He wondered.

"I will ask her," he said at last, abruptly—"Will you step inside?"

Mr. Medwin accepted the suggestion, taking off his hat as he crossed the threshold, and soon found himself in the quaint sitting-room where, but two days since, Hugo Jocelyn had told Innocent all her true history. He could not help being impressed by its old-world peace and beauty, furnished as it was in perfect taste, with its window-outlook on a paradise of happy flowers rejoicing in the sunlight. The fragrance of sweet lavender scented the air, and a big china bowl of roses in the centre of the table gave a touch of tender brightness to the old oak panelling on the walls.

"There are things in this room that are priceless!" soliloquised the clergyman, who was something of a collector—"If the place comes under the hammer I shall try to pick up a few pieces."

He smiled, with the pleased air of one who feels that all things must have an end—either by the "hammer" or otherwise,—even a fine old house, the pride and joy of a long line of its owners during three hundred years. And then he started, as the door opened slowly and softly and a girl stood before him, looking more like a spirit than a mortal, clad in a plain white gown, with a black ribbon threaded through her waving fair hair. She was pale to the very lips, and her eyes were swollen and heavy with weeping. Timidly she held out her hand.

"It is kind of you to come," she said,—and paused.

He, having taken her hand and let it go again, stood awkwardly mute. It was the first time he had seen Innocent in her home surroundings, and he had hardly noticed her at all when he had by chance met her in her rare walks through the village and neighbourhood, so that he was altogether unprepared for the refined delicacy and grace of her appearance.

"I am very sorry to hear of your sad bereavement," he began, at last, in a conventional tone—"very sorry indeed—"

She looked at him curiously.

"Are you? I don't think you can be sorry, because you did not know him—if you had known him, you would have been really grieved— yes, I am sure you would. He was such a good man!—one of the best in all the world! I'm glad you have come to see me, because I have often wanted to speak to you—and perhaps now is the right time. Won't you sit down?"

He obeyed her gesture, surprised more or less by her quiet air of sad self-possession. He had expected to offer the usual forms of religious consolation to a sort of uneducated child or farm-girl, nervous, trembling and tearful,—instead of this he found a woman whose grief was too deep and sincere to be relieved by mere talk, and whose pathetic composure and patience were the evident result of a highly sensitive mental organisation.

"I have never seen death before," she said, in hushed tones— "except in birds and flowers and animals—and I have cried over the poor things for sorrow that they should be taken away out of this beautiful world. But with Dad it is different. He was afraid —afraid of suffering and weakness—and he was taken so quickly that he could hardly have felt anything—so that his fears were all useless. And I can hardly believe he is dead—actually dead— can you? But of course you do not believe in death at all—the religion you teach is one of eternal life—eternal life and happiness."

Mr. Medwin's lips moved—he murmured something about "living again in the Lord."

Innocent did not hear,—she was absorbed in her own mental problem and anxious to put it before him.

"Listen!" she said—"When Priscilla told me Dad was really dead— that he would never get off the bed where he lay so cold and white and peaceful,—that he would never speak to me again, I said she was wrong—that it could not be. I told her he would wake presently and laugh at us all for being so foolish as to think him dead. Even Hero, our mastiff, does not believe it, for he has stayed all morning by the bedside and no one dare touch him to take him away. And just now Priscilla has been with me, crying very much—and she says I must not grieve,—because Dad is gone to a better world. Then surely he must be alive if he is able to go anywhere, must he not? I asked her what she knew about this better world, and she cried again and said indeed she knew nothing except what she had been taught in her Catechism. I have read the Catechism and it seems to me very stupid and unnatural—perhaps because I do not understand it. Can you tell me about this better world?"

Mr. Medwin's lips moved again. He cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid," he observed—"I'm very much afraid, my poor child, that you have been brought up in a sad state of ignorance."

Innocent did not like being called a "poor child"—and she gave a little gesture of annoyance.

"Please do not pity me," she said, with a touch of hauteur—"I do not wish that! I know it is difficult for me to explain things to you as I see them, because I have never been taught religion from a Church. I have read about the Virgin and Christ and the Saints and all those pretty legends in the books that belonged to the Sieur Amadis—but he lived three hundred years ago and he was a Roman Catholic, as all those French noblemen were at that time."

Mr. Medwin stared at her in blank bewilderment. Who was the Sieur Amadis? She went on, heedless of his perplexity.

"Dad believed in a God who governed all things rightly,—I have heard him say that God managed the farm and made it what it is. But he never spoke much about it—and he hated the Church—"

The reverend gentleman interrupted her with a grave uplifted hand.

"I know!" he sighed—"Ah yes, I know! A dreadful thing!—a shocking attitude of mind!' I fear he was not saved!"

She looked straightly at him.

"I don't see what you mean," she said—"He was quite a good man—"

"Are you sure of that?" and Mr. Medwin fixed his shallow brown eyes searchingly upon her. "Our affections are often very deceptive—"

A flush of colour overspread her pale cheeks.

"Indeed I am very sure!" she answered, steadily—"He was a good man. There was never a stain on his character—though he allowed people to think wrong things of him for my sake. That was his only fault."

He was silent, waiting for her next word.

"I think perhaps I ought to tell you," she continued—"because then you will be able to judge him better and spare his memory from foolish and wicked scandal. He was not my father—I was only his adopted daughter."

Mr. Medwin gave a slight cough—a cough of incredulity. "Adopted" is a phrase often used to cover the brand of illegitimacy.

"I never knew my own history till the other day," she said, slowly and sadly. "The doctor came to see Dad, with a London specialist, a friend of his—and they told him he had not long to live. After that Dad made up his mind that I must learn all the truth of myself—oh!—what a terrible truth it was!—I thought my heart would break! It was so strange—so cruel! I had grown up believing myself to be Dad's own, very own daughter!—and I had been deceived all my life!—for he told me I was nothing but a nameless child, left on his hands by a stranger!"

Mr. Medwin opened his small eyes in amazement,—he was completely taken aback. He tried to grasp the bearings of this new aspect of the situation thus presented to him, but could not realise anything save what in his own mind was he pleased to call a "cock- and-bull" story.

"Most extraordinary!" he ejaculated, at last—"Did he give you no clue at all as to your actual parentage?"

Innocent shook her head.

"How could he? A man on horseback arrived here suddenly one very stormy night, carrying me in his arms—I was just a little baby— and asked shelter for me, promising to come and fetch me in the morning—but he never came—and Dad never knew who he was. I was kept here out of pity at first—then Dad began to love me—"

The suppressed tears rose to her eyes and began to fall.

"Priscilla can tell you all about it," she continued, tremulously —"if you wish to know more. I am only explaining things a little because I do want you to understand that Dad was really a good man though he did not go to Church—and he must have been 'saved,' as you put it, for he never did anything unworthy of the name of Jocelyn!"

The clergyman thought a moment.

"You are not Miss Jocelyn, then?" he said.

She met his gaze with a sorrowful calmness.

"No. I am nobody. I have not even been baptised."

He sprang up from his chair, horrified.

"Not baptised!" he exclaimed—"Not baptised! Do you mean to tell me that Farmer Jocelyn never attended to this imperative and sacred duty on your behalf?—that he allowed you to grow up as a heathen?"

She remained unmoved by his outburst.

"I am not a heathen," she said, gently—"I believe in God—as Dad believed. I'm sorry I have not been baptised—but it has made no difference to me that I know of—"

"No difference!" and the clergyman rolled up his eyes and shook his head ponderously—"You poor unfortunate girl, it has made all the difference in the world! You are unregenerate—your soul is not washed clean—all your sins are upon you, and you are not redeemed!"

She looked at him tranquilly.

"That is all very sad for me if it is true," she said—"but it is not my fault. I could not help it. Dad couldn't help it either—he did not know what to do. He expected that I might be claimed and taken away any day—and he had no idea what name to give me— except Innocent—which is a name I suppose no girl ever had before. He used to get money from time to time in registered envelopes, bearing different foreign postmarks—and there was always a slip of paper inside with the words 'For Innocent' written on it. So that name has been my only name. You see, it was very difficult for him—poor Dad!—besides, he did not believe in baptism—"

"Then he was an infidel!" declared Mr. Medwin, hotly.

Her serious blue eyes regarded him reproachfully.

"I don't think you should say that—it isn't quite kind on your part," she replied—"He always thanked God for prosperity, and never complained when things went wrong—that is not being an infidel! Even when he knew he was hopelessly ill, he never worried anyone about it—he was only just a little afraid-and that was perfectly natural. We're all a little afraid, you know—though we pretend we're not—none of us like the idea of leaving this lovely world and the sunshine for ever. Even Hamlet was afraid,— Shakespeare makes him say so. And when one has lived all one's life on Briar Farm—such a sweet peaceful home!—one can hardly fancy anything better, even in a next world! No—Dad was not an infidel—please do not think such a thing!—he only died last night—and I feel as if it would hurt him."

Mr. Medwin was exceedingly embarrassed and annoyed—there was something in the girl's quiet demeanour that suggested a certain intellectual superiority to himself. He hummed and hawed, lurking various unpleasant throaty noises.

"Well—to me, of course, it is a very shocking state of affairs," he said, irritably—"I hardly think I can be of any use—or consolation to you in the matters you have spoken of, which are quite outside my scope altogether. If you have anything to say about the funeral arrangements—but I presume Mr. Clifford—"

"Mr. Clifford is master here now," she answered—"He will give his own orders, and will do all that is best and wisest. As I have told you, I am a name-less nobody, and have no right in this house at all. I'm sorry if I have vexed or troubled you—but as you called I thought it was right to tell you how I am situated. You see, when poor Dad is buried I shall be going away at once—and I had an idea you might perhaps help me—you are God's minister."

He wrinkled up his brows and looked frowningly at her.

"You are leaving Briar Farm?" he asked.

"I must. I have no right to stay."

"Is Mr. Clifford turning you out?"

A faint, sad smile crept round the girl's pretty, sensitive mouth.

"Ah, no! No, indeed! He would not turn a dog out that had once taken food from his hand," she said. "It is my own wish entirely. When Dad was alive there was something for me to do in taking care of him—but now!—there is no need for me—I should feel in the way—besides, I must try to earn my own living."

"What do you propose to do?" asked Mr. Medwin, whose manner to her had completely changed from the politely patronising to the sharply aggressive—"Do you want a situation?"

She lifted her eyes to his fat, unpromising face.

"Yes—I should like one very much—I could be a lady's maid, I think, I can sew very well. But—perhaps you would baptise me first?"

He gave a sound between a cough and a grunt.

"Eh? Baptise you?"

"Yes,—because if I am unregenerate, and my soul is not clean, as you say, no one would take me—not even as a lady's maid."

Her quaint, perfectly simple way of putting the case made him angry.

"I'm afraid you are not sufficiently aware of the importance of the sacred rite,"—he said, severely—"At your age you would need to be instructed for some weeks before you could be considered fit and worthy. Then,—you tell me you have no name!—Innocent is not a name at all for a woman—I do not know who you are—you are ignorant of your parentage—you may have been born out of wedlock—"

She coloured deeply.

"I am not sure of that," she said, in a low tone.

"No—of course you are not sure,—but I should say the probability is that you are illegitimate"—and the reverend gentleman took up his hat to go. "The whole business is very perplexing and difficult. However, I will see what can be done for you—but you are in a very awkward corner!—very awkward indeed! Life will not be very easy for you, I fear!"

"I do not expect ease," she replied—"I have been very happy till now—and I am grateful for the past. I must make my own future."

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked out through the open window at the fair garden which she herself had tended for so long—and she saw the clergyman's portly form through a mist of sorrow as in half-hearted fashion he bade her good-day.

"I hope—I fervently trust—that God will support you in your bereavement," he said, unctuously—"I had intended before leaving to offer up a prayer with you for the soul of the departed and for your own soul—but the sad fact of your being unbaptised places me in a difficulty. But I shall not fail personally to ask our Lord to prepare you for the unfortunate change in your lot!"

"Thank you!" she replied, quietly—and without further salute he left her.

She stood for a moment considering—then sat down by the window, looking at the radiant flowerbeds, with all their profusion of blossom. She wondered dreamily how they could show such brave, gay colouring when death was in the house, and the aching sense of loss and sorrow weighted the air as with darkness. A glitter of white wings flashed before her eyes, and her dove alighted on the window-sill,—she stretched out her hand and the petted bird stepped on her little rosy palm with all its accustomed familiarity and confidence. She caressed it tenderly.

"Poor Cupid!" she murmured—"You are like me—you are unregenerate!—you have never been baptised!—your soul has not been washed clean!—and all your sins are on your head! Yes, Cupid!—we are very much alike!—for I don't suppose you know your own father and mother any more than I know mine! And yet God made you—and He has taken care of you—so far!"

She stroked the dove's satiny plumage gently—and then drew back a little into shadow as she saw Robin Clifford step out from the porch into the garden and hurriedly interrupt the advance of a woman who just then pushed open the outer gate—a slatternly- looking creature with dark dishevelled hair and a face which might have been handsome, but for its unmistakable impress of drink and dissipation.

"Eh, Mr. Clifford—it's you, is it?" she exclaimed, in shrill tones. "An' Farmer Jocelyn's dead!—who'd a' thought it! But I'd 'ave 'ad a bone to pick with 'im this mornin', if he'd been livin'—that I would!—givin' sack to Ned Landon without a warning to me!"

Innocent leaned forward, listening eagerly, with an uncomfortably beating heart. Through all the miserable, slow, and aching hours that had elapsed since Hugo Jocelyn's death, there had been a secret anxiety in her mind concerning Ned Landon and the various possibilities involved in his return to the farm, when he should learn that his employer was no more, and that Robin was sole master.

"I've come up to speak with ye," continued the woman,—"It's pretty 'ard on me to be left in the ditch, with a man tumbling ye off his horse an' ridin' away where ye can't get at 'im!" She laughed harshly. "Ned's gone to 'Merriker!"

"Gone to America!"—Robin's voice rang out in sharp accents of surprise—"Ned Landon? Why, when did you hear that?"

"Just now—his own letter came with the carrier's cart—he left the town last night and takes ship from Southampton to-day. And why? Because Farmer Jocelyn gave him five hundred pounds to do it! So there's some real news for ye!"

"Five hundred pounds!" echoed Clifford—"My Uncle Hugo gave him five hundred pounds!"

"Ay, ye may stare!"—and the woman laughed again—"And the devil has taken it all,—except a five-pun' note which he sends to me to 'keep me goin',' he says. Like his cheek! I'm not his wife, that's true!—but I'm as much as any wife—an' there's the kid—"

Robin glanced round apprehensively at the open window.

"Hush!" he said—"don't talk so loud—"

"The dead can't hear," she said, scornfully—"an' Ned says in his letter that he's been sent off all on account of you an' your light o' love—Innocent, she's called—a precious 'innocent' SHE is!—an' that the old man has paid 'im to go away an' 'old his tongue! So it's all YOUR fault, after all, that I'm left with the kid to rub along anyhow;—he might ave married me in a while, if he'd stayed. I'm only Jenny o' Mill-Dykes now—just as I've always been—the toss an' catch of every man!—but I 'ad a grip on Ned with the kid, an' he'd a' done me right in the end if you an' your precious 'innocent' 'adn't been in the way—"

Robin made a quick stride towards her.

"Go out of this place!" he said, fiercely—"How dare you come here with such lies!"

He stopped, half choked with rage.

Jenny looked at him and laughed—then snapped her fingers in his face.

"Lies, is it?" she said—"Well, lies make good crops, an' Farmer Jocelyn's money'll 'elp them to grow! Lies, indeed! An' how dare I come here? Why, because your old uncle is stiff an' cold an' can't speak no more—an' no one would know what 'ad become o' Ned Landon if I wasn't here to tell them an' show his own letter! I'll tell them all, right enough!—you bet your life I will!"

She turned her back on him and began to walk, or rather slouch, out of the garden. He went up close to her, his face white with passion.

"If you say one word about Miss Jocelyn—" he began.

"Miss Jocelyn!" she exclaimed, shrilly—"That's good!—we ARE grand!"—and she dropped him a mock curtsey—"Miss Jocelyn! There ain't no 'Miss Jocelyn,' an' you know it as well as I do! So don't try to fool ME! Look here, Mr. Robin Clifford"—and she confronted him, with arms akimbo—"you're not a Jocelyn neither!—there's not a Jocelyn left o' the old stock—they're all finished with the one lyin' dead upstairs yonder—and I'll tell ye what!—you an' your 'innocent' are too 'igh an' mighty altogether for the likes o' we poor villagers—seein' ye ain't got nothin' to boast of, neither of ye! You've lost me my man—an' I'll let everyone know how an' why!"

With that she went, banging the gate after her—and Clifford stood inert, furious within himself, yet powerless to do anything save silently endure the taunts she had flung at him. He could have cursed himself for the folly he had been guilty of in telling his uncle about the fight between him and Landon—for he saw now that the old man had secretly worried over the possible harm that might be done to Innocent through Landon's knowledge of her real story, which he had learned through his spying and listening. Whatever that harm could be, was now intensified—and scandal, beginning as a mere whispered suggestion, would increase to loud and positive assertion ere long.

"Poor Uncle Hugo!" and the young man looked up sorrowfully at the darkened windows of the room where lay in still and stern repose all that was mortal of the last of the Jocelyns—"What a mistake you have made! You meant so well!—you thought you were doing a wise thing in sending Landon away—and at such a cost!—but you did not know what he had left behind him—Jenny of the Mill-Dykes, whose wicked tongue would blacken an angel's reputation!"

A hand touched him lightly on the arm from behind. He turned swiftly round and confronted Innocent—she stood like a little figure of white porcelain, holding her dove against her breast.

"Poor Robin!" she said, softly—"Don't worry! I heard everything."

He stared down upon her.

"You heard—?"

"Yes. I was at the open window there—I couldn't help hearing. It was Jenny of the Mill-Dykes—I know her by sight, but not to speak to—Priscilla told me something about her. She isn't a nice woman, is she?"

"Nice?" Robin gasped—"No, indeed! She is—Well!—I must not tell you what she is!"

"No!—you must not—I don't want to hear. But she ought to be Ned Landon's wife—I understood that!—and she has a little child. I understood that too. And she knows everything about me—and about that night when you climbed up on my window-sill and sat there so long. It was a pity you did that, wasn't it?"

"Yes!—when there was a dirty spy in hiding!" said Robin, hotly.

"Ah!—we never imagined such a thing could be on Briar Farm!"—and she sighed—"but it can't be helped now. Poor darling Dad! He parted with all that money to get rid of the man he thought would do me wrong. Oh Robin, he loved me!"

The tears gathered in her eyes and fell slowly like bright raindrops on the downy feathers of the dove she held.

"He loved you, and I love you!" murmured Robin, tenderly. "Dear little girl, come indoors and don't cry any more! Your sweet eyes will be spoilt, and Uncle Hugo could never bear to see you weeping. All the tears in the world won't bring him back to us here,—but we can do our best to please him still, so that if his spirit has ever been troubled, it can be at peace. Come in and let us talk quietly together—we must look at things squarely and straightly, and we must try to do all the things he would have wished—"

"All except one thing," she said, as they went together side by side into the house—"the one thing that can never be!"

"The one thing—the chief thing that shall be!" answered Robin, fiercely—"Innocent, you must be my wife!"

She lifted her tear-wet eyes to his with a grave and piteous appeal which smote him to the heart by its intense helplessness and sorrow.

"Robin,—dear Robin!" she said—"Don't make it harder for me than it is! Think for a moment! I am nameless—a poor, unbaptised, deserted creature who was flung on your uncle's charity eighteen years ago—I am a stranger and intruder in this old historic place—I have no right to be here at all—only through your uncle's kindness and yours. And now things have happened so cruelly for me that I am supposed to be to you—what I am not,"— and the deep colour flushed her cheeks and brow. "I have somehow— through no fault of my own—lost my name!—though I had no name to lose—except Innocent!—which, as the clergyman told me, is no name for a woman. Do you not see that if I married you, people would say it was because you were compelled to marry me?—that you had gone too far to escape from me?—that, in fact, we were a sort of copy of Ned Landon and Jenny of the Mill-Dykes?"

"Innocent!"

He uttered the name in a tone of indignant and despairing protest. They were in the oak parlour together, and she went slowly to the window and let her pet dove fly.

"Ah, yes! Innocent!" she repeated, sadly—"But you must let me go, Robin!—just as I have let my dove fly, so you must let me fly also—far, far away!"



CHAPTER IX

No more impressive scene was ever witnessed in a country village than the funeral of "the last of the Jocelyns,"—impressive in its solemnity, simplicity and lack of needless ceremonial. The coffin, containing all that was mortal of the sturdy, straightforward farmer, whose "old-world" ways of work and upright dealing with his men had for so long been the wonder and envy of the district, was placed in a low waggon and covered with a curiously wrought, handwoven purple cloth embroidered with the arms of the French knight "Amadis de Jocelin," tradition asserting that this cloth had served as a pall for every male Jocelyn since his time. The waggon was drawn by four glossy dark brown cart-horses, each animal having known its master as a friend whose call it was accustomed to obey, following him wherever he went. On the coffin itself was laid a simple wreath of the "Glory" roses gathered from the porch and walls of Briar Farm, and offered, as pencilled faintly on a little scroll—"With a life's love and sorrow from Innocent." A long train of mourners, including labourers, farm- lads, shepherds, cowherds, stable-men and villagers generally, followed the corpse to the grave,—Robin Clifford, as chief mourner and next-of-kin to the dead man, walking behind the waggon with head down-bent and a face on which intense grief had stamped such an impress as to make it look far older than his years warranted. Groups of women stood about, watching the procession with hard eager eyes, and tongues held in check for a while, only to wag more vigorously than ever when the ceremony should be over. Innocent, dressed in deep black for the first time in her life, went by herself to the churchyard, avoiding the crowd—and, hidden away among concealing shadows, she heard the service and watched all the proceedings dry-eyed and heart-stricken. She could not weep any more—there seemed no tears left to relieve the weight of her burning brain. Robin had tenderly urged her to walk with him in the funeral procession, but she refused.

"How can I!—how dare I!" she said—"I am not his daughter—I am nothing! The cruel people here know it!—and they would only say my presence was an insult to the dead. Yes!—they would—NOW! He loved me!—and I loved him!—but nobody outside ourselves thinks about that, or cares. You would hardly believe it, but I have already been told how wicked it was of me to be dressed in white when the clergyman called to see me the morning after Dad's death —well, I had no other colour to wear till Priscilla got me this sad black gown—it made me shudder to put it on—it is like the darkness itself!—you know Dad always made me wear white—and I feel as if I were vexing him somehow by wearing black. Oh, Robin, be kind!—you always are!—let me go by myself and watch Dad put to rest where nobody can see me. For after they have laid him down and left him, they will be talking!"

She was right enough in this surmise. Not one who saw Farmer Jocelyn's coffin lowered into the grave failed to notice the wreath of "Glory" roses that went with it—"from Innocent";—and her name was whispered from mouth to mouth with meaning looks and suggestive nods. And when Robin, with tears thick in his eyes, flung the first handfuls of earth rattling down on the coffin lid, his heart ached to see the lovely fragrant blossoms crushed under the heavy scattered mould, for it seemed to his foreboding mind that they were like the delicate thoughts and fancies of the girl he loved being covered by the soiling mud of the world's cruelty and slander, and killed in the cold and darkness of a sunless solitude.

All was over at last,—the final prayer was said—the final benediction was spoken, and the mourners gradually dispersed. The Reverend Mr. Medwin, assisted by his young curate, had performed the ceremony, and before retiring to the vestry to take off his surplice, he paused by the newly-made grave to offer his hand and utter suitable condolences to Robin Clifford.

"It is a great and trying change for you," he said. "I suppose"— this tentatively—"I suppose you will go on with the farm?"

"As long as I live," answered Clifford, looking him steadily in the face, "Briar Farm will be what it has always been."

Mr. Medwin gave him a little appreciative bow.

"We are very glad of that—very glad indeed!" he said—"Briar Farm is a great feature—a very great feature!—indeed, one may say it is an historical possession. Something would be lacking in the neighbourhood if it were not kept up to its old tradition and—er —reputation. I think we feel that—I think we feel it, do we not, Mr. Forwood?" here turning to his curate with affable condescension.

Mark Forwood, a clever-looking young man with kind eyes and intelligent features, looked at Robin sympathetically.

"I am quite sure," he said, "that Mr. Clifford will take as much pride in the fine old place as his uncle did—but is there not Miss Jocelyn?—the daughter will probably inherit the farm, will she not, as nearest of kin?"

Mr. Medwin coughed obtrusively—and Clifford felt the warm blood rushing to his brows. Yet he resolved that the truth should be told, for the honour of the dead man's name.

"She is not my uncle's daughter," he said, quietly—"My uncle never married. He adopted her when she was an infant—and she was as dear to him as if she had been his own child. Of course she will be amply provided for—there can be no doubt of that."

Mr. Forwood raised his eyes and eyebrows together.

"You surprise me!" he murmured. "Then—there is no Miss Jocelyn?"

Again Robin coloured. But he answered, composedly—

"There is no Miss Jocelyn."

Mr. Medwin's cough here troubled him considerably, and though it was a fine day, he expressed a mild fear that he was standing too long by the open grave in his surplice—he, therefore, retired, his curate following him,—whereupon the sexton, a well-known character in the village, approached to finish the sad task of committing "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

"Eh, Mr. Clifford," remarked this worthy, as he stuck his spade down in the heaped-up earth and leaned upon it,—"it's a black day, forbye the summer sun! I never thort I'd a' thrown the mouls on the last Jocelyn. For last he is, an' there'll never be another like 'im!"

"You're right there, Wixton," said Robin, sadly—"I know the place can never be the same without him. I shall do my best—but—"

"Ay, ye'll do your best," agreed Wixton, with a foreboding shake of his grizzled head—"but you're not a Jocelyn, an' your best'll be but a bad crutch, though there's Jocelyn blood in ye by ye'r mother's side. Howsomever it's not the same as the male line, do what we will an' say what we like! It's not your fault, no, lad!" —this with a pitying look—"an' no one's blamin' ye for what can't be 'elped—but it's not a thing to be gotten over."

Robin's grave nod of acquiescence was more eloquent than speech.

Wixton dug his spade a little deeper into the pile of earth.

"If Farmer Jocelyn 'ad been a marryin' man, why, that would a' been the right thing," he went on—"He might a' had a fine strappin' son to come arter 'im, a real born-an'-bred Jocelyn—"

Robin listened with acute interest. Why did not Wixton mention Innocent? Did he know she was not a Jocelyn? He waited, and Wixton went on—

"But, ye see, 'e wouldn't have none o' that. An' he took the little gel as was left with 'im the night o' the great storm nigh eighteen years ago that blew down three of our biggest elms in the church-yard—"

"Did you know?" exclaimed Clifford, eagerly—"Did you see—?"

"I saw a man on 'orseback ride up to Briar Farm, 'oldin' a baby in front o' him with one hand, and the reins in t'other—an' he came out from the farm without the baby. Then one mornin' when Farmer Jocelyn was a-walkin' with the baby in the fields I said to 'im, secret-like—'That ain't your child!' an' he sez—'Ow do you know it ain't?' An' I sez—' Because I saw it come with a stranger'— an' he laughed an' said—'It may be mine for all that!' But I knew it worn't! A nice little girl she is too,—Miss Innocent—poor soul! I'm downright sorry for 'er, for she ain't got many friends in this village."

"Why?" Robin asked, half mechanically.

"Why? Well, she's a bit too dainty—like in 'er ways for one thing—then there's gels who are arter YOU, Mister Clifford!—ay, ay, ye know they are!—sharp 'ussies, all of 'em!—an' they can't abide 'ER, for they thinks you're a-goin' to marry 'er!—Lord forgive me that I should be chitterin' 'ere about marryin' over a buryin'!—but that's the trouble—an' it's the trouble all the world over, wimmin wantin' a man, an' mad for their lives when they thinks another woman's arter 'im! Eh, eh! We should all get along better if there worn't no wimmin jealousies, but bein' men we've got to put up with 'em. Are ye goin' now, Mister?—Well, the Lord love ye an' comfort ye!—ye'll never meet a finer man this side the next world than the one I'm puttin' a cold quilt on!"

Silently Clifford turned away, heavy-hearted and lost in perplexed thought. What was best to be done for Innocent? This was the chief question that presented itself to his mind. He could no longer deny the fact that her position was difficult—almost untenable. Nameless, and seemingly deserted by her kindred, if any such kindred still existed, she was absolutely alone in life, now that Hugo Jocelyn was no more. As he realised this to its fullest intensity, the deeper and more passionate grew his love for her.

"If she would only marry me!" he said under his breath, as he walked home slowly from the church-yard—"It was Uncle Hugo's last wish!"

Then across his brain flashed the memory of Ned Landon and his malignant intention—born of baffled desire and fierce jealousy— to tarnish the fair name of the girl he coveted,—then, his uncle's quixotic and costly way of ridding himself of such an enemy at any price. He understood now old Jocelyn's talk of his "bargain" on the last night of his life,-and what a futile bargain it was, after all!—for was not Jenny of the Mill-Dykes fully informed of the reason why the bargain was made?—and she, the vilest-tongued woman in the whole neighbourhood, would take delight in spreading the story far and wide. Five Hundred Pounds paid down as "hush-money"!—so she would report it—thus, even if he married Innocent it would be under the shadow of a slur and slander. What was wisest to do under the circumstances he could not decide—and he entered the smiling garden of Briar Farm with the saddest expression on his face that anyone had ever seen there. Priscilla met him as he came towards the house.

"I thought ye'd never git here, Mister Robin," she said, anxiously—"Ye haven't forgot there's folks in the hall 'avin' their 'wake' feed an' they'll be wantin' to speak wi' ye presently. Mister Bayliss, which is ye'r uncle's lawyer, 'e wants to see ye mighty partikler, an' there ain't no one to say nothin' to 'em, for the dear little Innocent, she's come back from the cold churchyard like a little image o' marble, an' she's gone an' shut 'erself up in 'er own room, sayin' 'Ask Mister Robin to excuse me'—poor child!—she's fair wore out, that she is! An' you come into the big 'all where there's the meat and the wine laid out, for funeral folk eats more than weddin' folk, bein' longer about it an' a bit solemner in gettin' of it down."

Robin looked at her with strained, haggard eyes.

"Priscilla," he said, huskily—"Death is a horrible thing!"

"Ay, that it is!" and Priscilla wiped the teardrops off her cheeks with a corner of her apron—"An' I've often thought it seems a silly kind o' business to bring us into the world at all for no special reason 'cept to take us out of it again just as folks 'ave learned to know us a bit and find us useful. Howsomever, there's no arguin' wi' the Almighty, an' p'raps it's us as makes the worst o' death instead o' the best of it. Now you go into the great hall, Mr. Robin—you're wanted there."

He went, as desired,—and was received with a murmur of sympathy by those assembled—a gathering made up of the head men about the farm, and a few other personages less familiar to the village, but fairly well known to him, such as corn and cattle dealers from the neighbouring town who had for many years done business with Jocelyn in preference to any other farmer. These came forward and cordially shook hands with Robin, entering at once into conversation with him concerning his future intentions.

"We should like things to go on the same as if th' old man were alive," said one, a miller,—"We don't like changes after all these years. But whether you're up to it, my lad, or not, we don't know—and time'll prove—"

"Time WILL prove," answered Clifford, steadily. "You may rely upon it that Briar Farm will be worked on the same methods which my uncle practised and approved—and there will be no changes, except—the inevitable one"—and he sighed,—"the want of the true master's brain and hand."

"Eh well! You'll do your best, lad!—I'm sure of that!" and the miller grasped his hand warmly—"And we'll all stick by you! There's no farm like Briar Farm in the whole country—that's my opinion!—it gives the finest soil and the soundest crops to be got anywhere—you just manage it as Farmer Jocelyn managed it, with men's work, and you'll come to no harm! And, as I say, we'll all stick by you!"

Robin thanked him, and then moved slowly in and out among the other funeral guests, saying kindly things, and in his quiet, manly way creating a good impression among them, and making more friends than he himself was aware of. Presently Mr. Bayliss, a mild-looking man with round spectacles fixed very closely up against his eyes, approached him, beckoning him with one finger.

"When you're ready, Mr. Clifford," he said, "I should like to see you in the best parlour—and the young lady—I believe she is called Innocent?—yes, yes!—and the young lady also. Oh, there's no hurry—no hurry!—better wait till the guests have gone, as what I have to say concerns only yourself—and—er—yes—er, the young lady before mentioned. And also a—a"—here he pulled out a note-book from his pocket and studied it through his owl-like glasses—"yes!—er, yes!—a Miss Priscilla Priday—she must be present, if she can be found—I believe she is on the premises?"

"Priscilla is our housekeeper," said Robin—"and a faithful friend."

"Yes—I—er—thought so—a devoted friend," murmured Mr. Bayliss, meditatively—"and what a thing it is to have a devoted friend, Mr. Clifford! Your uncle was a careful man!—very careful!—he knew whom to trust—he thoroughly knew! Yes—WE don't all know— but HE did!"

Robin made no comment. The murmuring talk of the funeral party went on, buzzing in his ears like the noise of an enormous swarm of bees—he watched men eating and drinking the good things Priscilla had provided for the "honour of the farm"—and then, on a sudden impulse he slipped out of the hall and upstairs to Innocent's room, where he knocked softly at the door. She opened it at once, and stood before him—her face white as a snowdrop, and her eyes heavy and strained with the weight of unshed tears.

"Dear," he said, gently—"you will be wanted downstairs in a few minutes—Mr. Bayliss wishes you to be present when he reads Uncle Hugo's will."

She made a little gesture of pain and dissent.

"I do not want to hear it," she said—"but I will come."

He looked at her with anxiety and tenderness.

"You have eaten nothing since early morning; you look so pale and weak—let me get you something—a glass of wine."

"No, thank you," she answered—"I could not touch a morsel—not just yet. Oh, Robin, it hurts me to hear all those voices in the great hall!—men eating and drinking there, as if he were still alive!—and they have only just laid him down in the cold earth— so cold and dark!"

She shuddered violently.

"I do not think it is right," she went on—"to allow people to love each other at all if death must separate them for ever. It seems only a cruelty and wickedness. Now that I have seen what death can do, I will never love anyone again!"

"No—I suppose you will not," he said, somewhat bitterly—"yet, you have never known what love is—you do not understand it."

She sighed, deeply.

"Perhaps not!" she said—"And I'm not sure that I want to understand it—not now. What love I had in my heart is all buried —with Dad and the roses. I am not the same girl any more—I feel a different creature—grown quite old!"

"You cannot feel older than I do," he replied—"but you do not think of me at all,—why should you? I never used to think you selfish, Innocent!—you have always been so careful and considerate of the feelings of others—yet now!—well!—are you not so much absorbed in your own grief as to be forgetful of mine? For mine is a double grief—a double loss—I have lost my uncle and best friend—and I shall lose you because you will not love me, though I love you with all my heart and only want to make you happy!"

Her sad eyes met his with a direct, half-reproachful gaze.

"You think me selfish?"

"No!—no, Innocent!—but—"

"I see!" she said—"You think I ought to sacrifice myself to you, and to Dad's last wish. You would expect me to spoil your life by marrying you unwillingly and without love—"

"I tell you you know nothing about love!" he interrupted her, impatiently.

"So you imagine," she answered quietly—"but I do know one thing— and it is that no one who really loves a person wishes to see that person, unhappy. To love anybody means that above all things in the world you desire to see the beloved one well and prosperous and full of gladness. You cannot love me or you would not wish me to do a thing that would make me miserable. If I loved you, I would marry you and devote my life to yours—but I do not love you, and, therefore, I should only make you wretched if I became your wife. Do not let us talk of this any more—it tires me out!"

She passed her hand over her forehead with a weary gesture.

"It is wrong to talk of ourselves at all when Dad is only just buried," she continued. "You say Mr. Bayliss wants to see me—very well!—in a few minutes I will come."

She stepped back inside her little room and shut the door. Clifford walked away, resentful and despairing. There was something in her manner that struck him as new and foreign to her usual sweet and equable nature,—a grave composure, a kind of intellectual hardness that he had never before seen in her. And he wondered what such a change might portend.

Downstairs, the funeral party had broken up—many of the mourners had gone, and others were going. Some lingered to the last possible moment that their intimacy or friendship with the deceased would allow, curious to hear something of the will—what the amount of the net cash was that had been left, and how it had been disposed. But Mr. Bayliss, the lawyer, was a cautious man, and never gave himself away at any point. To all suggestive hints and speculative theories he maintained a dignified reserve—and it was not until the last of the guests had departed that he made his way to the vacant "best parlour," and sat there with his chair pulled well up to the table and one or two legal-looking documents in front of him. Robin Clifford joined him there, taking a seat opposite to him—and both men waited in more or less silence till the door opened softly to admit Innocent, who came in with Priscilla.

Mr. Bayliss rose.

"I'm sorry to have to disturb you, Miss—er—Miss Innocent," he said, with some awkwardness—"on this sad occasion—"

"It is no trouble," she answered, gently—"if I can be of any use—"

Mr. Bayliss waited till she sat down,—then again seated himself.

"Well, there is really no occasion to go over legal formalities," he said, opening one of the documents before him—"Your uncle, Mr. Clifford, was a business man, and made his will in a business-like way. Briefly, I may tell you that Briar Farm, its lands, buildings, and all its contents are left to you—who are identified thus—'to my nephew, Robin Clifford, only son of my only sister, the late Elizabeth Jocelyn, widow of John Clifford, wholesale trader in French wines, and formerly resident in the City of London, on condition that the said Robin Clifford shall keep and maintain the farm and house as they have always been kept and maintained. He shall not sell any part of the land for building purposes, nor shall he dispose of any of the furniture, pewter, plate, china, glass, or other effects belonging to Briar Farm House,—but shall carefully preserve the same and hand them down to his lawful heirs in succession on the same terms as heretofore'—etc., etc.,—yes!—well!—that is the gist of the business, and we need not go over the details. With the farm and lands aforesaid he leaves the sum of Twenty Thousand Pounds—"

"Twenty Thousand Pounds!" ejaculated Robin, amazed—"Surely my uncle was never so rich—!"

"He was a saving man and a careful one," said Mr. Bayliss, calmly,—"You may take it for granted, Mr. Clifford, that his money was made through the course of his long life, in a thoroughly honest and straightforward manner!"

"Oh—that, of course!—but—Twenty Thousand Pounds!"

"It is a nice little fortune," said Mr. Bayliss—"and you come into it at a time of life when you will be able to make good use of it. Especially if you should be inclined to marry—"

His eyes twinkled meaningly as they glanced from Clifford's face to that of Innocent—the young man's expression was absorbed and earnest, but the girl looked lost and far away in a dream of her own.

"I shall not marry," said Robin, slowly—"I shall use the money entirely for the good of the farm and the work-people—"