‘It would not seem long if my father had been reasonable--if he had not forbidden me to see you, or write to you. Cyril,’ she said, looking at him with sudden intensity, ‘is it a sin to wish for the death of any one?’ ‘My dear one, you must know that it is--a deadly sin: “Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer.”’ ‘I do not hate my father; but sometimes I find myself thinking of what would happen if he were to die. I should be free--rich. I could give you my fortune--you could lavish it all on acts of charity and beneficence. We would live like poor people. We would devote our lives to doing good. We would show the world how a parish priest and his wife ought to live.’ ‘Beatrix, pray continually against wicked thoughts. There could be no deadlier sin than to desire your father’s death. God forbid that you should fall into it! I have never sighed for wealth--nor do I believe that a man’s opportunities of doing good depend upon the length of his purse. For one man who will find will and energy, patience and perseverance, to help his fellow-men, there are a hundred ready to give their money. No, dear love, we can be happy without your father’s wealth. We should be no happier for his death. We have but to be true to each other, and all will be well.’ The groom came up to remind his mistress that the short day was closing, and that the moorland road was dangerous after dark. ‘God bless you, dearest, and good-bye,’ said Cyril. ‘Oh, why are you in such haste to get rid of me?’ she cried, impatiently, in French, the groom standing close by, ready to lift her on to her horse. ‘It may be ages before we meet again. You talked in that cruel letter of leaving Little Yafford. When is that to be?’ ‘I have taken no step yet. This place is dear to me. But I shall leave soon after Christmas, if I can do so without inconvenience to the Vicar.’ ‘I shall feel just a shade more miserable when you are gone,’ said Beatrix. She put her slim foot upon William’s broad palm, and sprang lightly into her saddle. Cyril watched her as she rode slowly down the hill, looking back at him now and then, forlornly, as from the vessel that was carrying her into exile. His heart bled for her, but the idea that she had calculated the possibilities that hung upon her father’s death--that she had even sinned so deeply as to wish him dead--haunted him painfully. Was there a strain of hardness in this impetuous nature--a flaw in this gem which he had hitherto counted peerless? Well, she was not perfect, perhaps. His creed taught him that there was no soul so pure but on its virgin whiteness showed some dark spot of sin. And she had been hardly treated--held at arm’s length by her father’s coldness. She had been reared in a home unsanctified by affection. He pleaded for her, and excused her in his own mind, and was full of sorrow for her. But for him, as she had said, life was full of interest and action. For him two years seemed a little while. CHAPTER XIII.