“That will make my life full of joy, instead of an intolerable burden,” he exclaimed, glowing with delight. “I _could_ not bear it otherwise! The distance between us would be too great. And--is it not better to confess it?--I am easily jealous. I feel that to go on my way there in London, whilst you were shining among people of wealth and leisure, all doing you homage, that would drive me mad.” Isabel smiled as she reassured him. These words pleased her, but not in the nobler way. He had said what should never be said to a woman by one who will hold her love pure of meaner mixture. “I shall come to London in the spring,” she said presently. “You know I always do so, but this time it will only be to be near you. I can’t afford a house; I shall take rooms, and you will often come to see me.” He looked at her, but did not answer. “But who knows what may happen before then?” she exclaimed, with sudden joyousness. “We can make no plans. Fate has brought us together, and fate will help us--have no fear!” “Fate is not often benevolent,” said King-cote, smiling cheerlessly. “But are not we the exceptions? I feel--I know--that there is happiness for us; I won’t listen to a single down-hearted word! You came to Winstoke because my love was waiting for you; you are going now to London because something is prepared which we cannot foresee. Look brighter, dear; it is all well.” “Isabel, I will not see you again before I go.” She hesitated. “Then write me your good-bye, and you shall have one from me on Tuesday morning. Send me your London address in the letter. Shall you live where your sister is?” “For the present, I believe.” “And you will see your artist friend again. Shall you tell him? Have you told him?” “I have not, and shall not. It is our secret.” She gave a laugh of joy. Why did the laugh jar on him? He was so easily affected by subtleties of feeling which another man would not conceive. They took leave of each other. Kingcote walked about the lanes till some time after dark, then made his way to the rectory. Mr. Vissian himself opened the door--there was no evening service at the church in winter. “Good! I expected you,” he exclaimed. “Better late than never. Have you had tea?” “No; I should be glad of a cup.” They went into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Vissian and Percy still sat at table. It was a rule with the rector to put all mundane literature aside on Sunday, but to-day he, had yielded to temptation. At the place where he had been sitting, a Shakspeare lay open, with a note-book beside it. Mr. Vissian stood with his back to the fire, fidgeting. Presently he could hold no longer; whilst Kingcote was still eating and drinking, he laid a hand on his shoulder, and put before him a page of the note-book. “My friend,” he said gravely, “read that--carefully now; with no indecent haste. Read--perpend!” It was the explanatory note on “The Lady of the Strachy.” “That’s very interesting,” said Kingcote quietly.