Rowland and Freda seem to ask the same question, for, loosening that close grasp of hands, and without one word of love, they walk hastily towards the house. Rowland talks rapidly the whole way, interrupted by an occasional sentence from Freda. Readers, there is no proposal, no acceptance. The conversation is as follows:-- _Rowland._--I have just received letters from the Bishop of London and Mr Jones offering me the living, and telling me that the parishioners wish me for their rector. I am most thankful now, for it puts me in a very different position--it allows me to hope, and with less presumption. _Freda._--It makes no difference to me, you are yourself whether rector or curate. But I rejoice for your sake, and to know that they appreciate you. _Rowland._--You will know and believe that it was Miss Gwynne, Freda, the woman, not the heiress, that I have loved so long and so well. _Freda._--I am no longer an heiress; you are far the best off. _Rowland._--I am most thankful. Had this wide park still been yours, I could never have said what I have dared to say to-day; but let me repeat once more your words that I may remember who I am--a farmer's son, your father's tenant. _Freda._--A clergyman, a gentleman, and a Christian. _Rowland._--My brother-in-law a--a--felon. _Freda._--Yourself not changed by your brother-in-law's crimes. _Rowland._--If then in the course of another year our present painful position should be forgotten, or at least, at rest, when I am established at the rectory as rector, when I can come forward on my own responsibility, when, in short, I can say without compunction all I now feel, may I hope?' _Freda._--Then as now, you may be certain. They were on the steps before the door of the house; again their hands were firmly clasped. _Rowland._--Till then, farewell, and God bless you. _Freda._--Will you not come in? _Rowland._--No, I would rather not now. _Freda._--Then God bless you, and be with you during your coming trial. And thus they parted, happy, and having perfect faith in one another. CHAPTER LI. THE CONVICT. Forgeries of all sorts are so much the taste of genteel rogues of the present age, that the reader will readily dispense with a detailed account of the trial and conviction of Howel Jenkins. Any one of the various cases that fill those columns of the _Times_, devoted to such criminalities, will give a very good general idea of his. All that his mother's remnant of his father's hoarded wealth could do, was done, to prove him guiltless, but in vain. Counsel pleaded, some of his turf friends, themselves of doubtful reputation, spoke to his character, and he sat through his trial as imperturbably as if he had been at a dinner-party. The prosecutors, Sir Samuel Spendall and Sir Horatio Simpson, met with deserved reproofs for allowing themselves to be swindled, almost before their faces, out of money and property to an enormous amount.