who had learned, or would easily learn, to give himself; and no man who
does not give at least something of himself, gives anything; but now she
knew that he had gone further away, and she saw his father look
disappointed. To Molly it was a sad relief when his departure came. They
had not once disputed; she had not once offered him a penny for his
thoughts, or asked him a single question, yet he did not even want her
to go to the station with him.




CHAPTER XIV.


A MIDNIGHT REVIEW.

From Comberidge a dog-cart had been sent to meet him at the railway. He
drove up the avenue as the sun was setting behind the house, and its
long, low, terraced front received him into a cold shadow. The servant
who opened the door said her ladyship was on the lawn; and following him
across the hall, Walter came out into the glory of a red sunset. Like a
lovely carpet, or rather, like a green, silent river, the lawn appeared
to flow from the house as from its fountain, issuing by the open doors
and windows, and descending like a gentle rapid, to lose itself far away
among trees and shrubs. Over it were scattered groups and couples and
individuals, looking like the creatures of a half-angelic paradise. A
little way off, under the boughs of a huge beech-tree, sat Lufa,
reading, with a pencil in her hand as if she made notes. As he stepped
from the house, she looked up and saw him. She laid her book on the
grass, rose, and came toward him. He went to meet her, but the light of