as it is not given to many men to love; and with the loss of her, it
seemed to him as if the very springs of his life were broken. All the
machinery of his existence was loosened and out of gear, and he could
scarcely have borne the dreary burden of his days, had it not been for
that one feverish hope of finding the man who had wronged him.

The week ended without bringing him in the smallest degree nearer the
chance of success. Happily for himself, he had not expected to succeed in
a week. On leaving Winchester, he started on a kind of vagabond tour
through the county, on a horse which he hired in the cathedral city, and
which carried him from twenty to thirty miles a day. This mode of
travelling enabled him to explore obscure villages and out-of-the-way
places that lay off the line of railway. Everywhere he made the same
inquiries, everywhere with the same result. Another week came to an end.
He had made his voyage of discovery through more than half of the county,
as his pocket-map told him, and was still no nearer success than when he
left London.

He spent his Sunday at a comfortable inn in a quiet little town, where
there was a curious old church, and a fine peal of bells that seemed to
him to be ringing all day long. It was a dull rainy day. He went to
church in the morning, and in the afternoon stood at the coffee-room
window watching the townspeople going by to their devotions in an absent
unseeing way, and thinking of his own troubles; pausing, just a little,
now and then, from that egotistical brooding to wonder how these people
endured the dull monotonous round of their lives, and what crosses and
disappointments they had to suffer in their small obscure way.

The inn was very empty, and the landlord waited upon Mr. Fenton in person
at his dinner. Gilbert had the coffee-room all to himself, and it looked