we were.' And in a minute the vicar was snoring again.


That evening, being the last, seemed to throw an exceptional shade
of sadness over Stephen Smith, and the repeated injunctions of the
vicar, that he was to come and revisit them in the summer,
apparently tended less to raise his spirits than to unearth some
misgiving.

He left them in the gray light of dawn, whilst the colours of
earth were sombre, and the sun was yet hidden in the east. Elfride
had fidgeted all night in her little bed lest none of the
household should be awake soon enough to start him, and also lest
she might miss seeing again the bright eyes and curly hair, to
which their owner's possession of a hidden mystery added a deeper
tinge of romance. To some extent--so soon does womanly interest
take a solicitous turn--she felt herself responsible for his safe
conduct. They breakfasted before daylight; Mr. Swancourt, being
more and more taken with his guest's ingenuous appearance, having
determined to rise early and bid him a friendly farewell. It was,
however, rather to the vicar's astonishment, that he saw Elfride
walk in to the breakfast-table, candle in hand.

Whilst William Worm performed his toilet (during which performance
the inmates of the vicarage were always in the habit of waiting
with exemplary patience), Elfride wandered desultorily to the
summer house. Stephen followed her thither. The copse-covered
valley was visible from this position, a mist now lying all along
its length, hiding the stream which trickled through it, though
the observers themselves were in clear air.