"I don't want to hear anything about it; I take no interest in the
subject."

"Won't you go then, father? There will be thousands of people there."

"No, sir, I will not go; neither will you, I hope," answered the Vicar,
and pushing his plate away, he rose, and walked stiffly out at the door
and along the stone passage leading to his study.

His son listened to his retreating footsteps.

"As bigoted as ever, poor fellow!" he said; "but what a fool I was to
mention the subject." And he continued his supper in silence. When
Betto came in to clear away he had flung himself down on the hard
horse-hair sofa. The mould candle lighted up but a small space in the
large, cold room; there was no fire in the grate, no books or papers
lying about, to beguile the tedious hour before bedtime. Was it any
wonder that his thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the
evening? that he should hear again in fancy the soft voice that said,
"I am Valmai Powell," and that he should picture to himself the
clustering curls that escaped from the red hood?

The old house, with its long passages and large rooms, was full of
those nameless sounds which fill the air in the quiet of night. He
heard his father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his study, he
heard the tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs, the bureau creaked,
the candle spluttered, but there was no human voice to break the
silence, With a yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, throwing
back his broad shoulders, made his way along the dark passage which led
into the kitchen, where the farm servants were seated at supper. Betto