"Oh, yes, miss; I mentioned that," said the
girl, simply. "The company coming, and the
accident to the brindled cow, was all the news I
had to take to the farm."

"Did you mention names? Did you tell
them that Sir Percival Glyde was expected on
Monday?"

"Yes, miss—I told them Sir Percival Glyde
was coming. I hope there was no harm in it;
I hope I didn't do wrong."

"Oh no, no harm. Come, Mr. Hartright;
Hannah will begin to think us in the way, if we
interrupt her any longer over her work."

We stopped and looked at one another, the
moment we were alone again.

"Is there any doubt in your mind, now, Miss
Halcombe?"

"Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt,
Mr. Hartright—or, Laura Fairlie shall never be
his wife."

XIV.

As we walked round to the front of the house,
a fly from the railway approached us along the
drive. Miss Halcombe waited on the door-steps
until the fly drew up; and then advanced to
shake hands with an old gentleman, who got
out briskly the moment the steps were let down.
Mr. Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to
each other, with an interest and a curiosity
which I could hardly conceal. This old man
was to remain at Limmeridge House after I had
left it; he was to hear Sir Percival Glyde's
explanation, and was to give Miss Halcombe the
assistance of his experience in forming her
judgment; he was to wait until the question of
the marriage was set at rest; and his hand, if
that question were decided in the affirmative,
was to draw the settlement which bound Miss
Fairlie irrevocably to her engagement. Even
then, when I knew nothing by comparison with
what I know now, I looked at the family lawyer
with an interest which I had never felt before
in the presence of any man breathing who was a
total stranger to me.

In external appearance, Mr. Gilmore was
the exact opposite of the conventional idea of
an old lawyer. His complexion was florid;
his white hair was worn rather long and kept
carefully brushed; his black coat, waistcoat,
and trousers, fitted him with perfect neatness;
his white cravat was carefully tied; and
his lavender-coloured kid gloves might have
adorned the hands of a fashonable clergyman,
without fear and without reproach. His manners
were pleasantly marked by the formal grace
and refinement of the old school of politeness,
quickened by the invigorating sharpness and
readiness of a man whose business in life obliges
him always to keep his faculties in good working
order. A sanguines consitution and fair
prospects to begin with; a long subsequent career
of credtable and comfortable prosperity; a
cheerful, diligent, widely-respected old age—
such were the general impressions I derived
from my introduction to Mr Gilmore;  and it is
but fair to him to add, that the knowledge I
gained by later and better experience only tended
to confirm them.

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe
to enter the house together, and to talk of
family matters undisturbed by the restraint of a
stranger's presence. They crossed the hall on
their way to the drawing-room; and I descended
the steps again, to wander about the garden
alone.

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge
House; my departure the next morning was
irrevocably settled; my share in the investigation
which the anonymous letter had rendered
necessary, was at an end. No harm could be
done to any one but myself, if I let my heart
loose again, for the little time that was left
me, from the cold cruelty of restraint which
necessity had forced me to inflict upon it, and
took my farewell of the scenes which were
associated with the brief dream-time of my happiness
and my love.

I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my
study-window, where I had seen her the evening
before with her little dog; and followed the
path which her dear feet had trodden so often,
till I came to the wicket gate that led into her
rose garden. The winter bareness spread
drearily over it, now. The flowers that she
had taught me to distinguish by their names,
the flowers that I had taught her to paint from,
were gone; and the tiny white paths that led
between the beds, were damp and green already.
I went on to the avenue of trees, where we had
breathed together the warm fragrance of August
evenings; where we had admired together the
myriad combinations of shade and sunlight that
dappled the ground at our feet. The leaves
fell about me from the groaning branches, and
the earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me
to the bones. A little farther on, and I was
out of the grounds, and following the lane that
wound gently upward to the nearest hills. The
old felled tree by the wayside, on which we had
sat to rest, was sodden with rain; and the tuft
of ferns and grasses which I had drawn for her,
nestling under the rough stone wall in front of
us, had turned to a pool of water stagnating
round an islet of draggled weeds. I gained
the summit of the hill; and looked at the
view which we had so often admired in the
happier time. It was cold and barren—it was
no longer the view that I remembered. The
sunshine of her presence was far from me; the
charm of her voice no longer murmured in my
ear. She had talked to me, on the spot from
which I now looked down, of her father, who
was her last surviving parent; had told me how
fond of each other they had been, and how sadly
she missed him still, when she entered certain
rooms in the house, and when she took up
forgotten occupations and amusements with which
he had been associated. Was the view that I
had seen, while listening to those words, the
view that I saw now, standing on the hill-top
by myself? I turned, and left it; I wound my
way back again, over the moor, and round the
sandhills, down to the beach. There was the