"He is mad; they all know that he is mad," urged Trenholme, dissuading
him.

They looked back, and saw the old man still preaching to the labourers
under the tree. A mare with its foal, and two half-grown colts, had come
up to an open fence within the tree's shadow, and, with their long
gentle heads hanging over, they too seemed to be listening.

The Scotchman, exhilarated by the cooling of the atmosphere, genially
invited Trenholme to a longer walk. Chellaston Mountain, with its cool
shades and fine prospect, was very near. A lane turned from the high
road, which led to the mountain's base. A hospitable farmhouse stood
where the mountain path began to ascend, suggesting sure offer of an
evening meal. Trenholme looked at the peaceful lane, the beautiful hill,
and all the sunny loveliness of the land, and refused the invitation. He
had not time, he said.

So they walked back the mile they had come, and Trenholme little thought
how soon, and with what agitation, he would pass that way again.




CHAPTER XVIII.


The next day, before Trenholme had had time to devise a plan for seeing
Miss Rexford, Mrs. Martha brought him a telegram. She watched him as he
drew his finger through the poor paper of the envelope, watched him as
one might watch another on the eve of some decisive event; yet she could