"Let me come and talk to you to-night, Betts! We have some notion of a Canadian opening that might attract you. You know the great Government farm near Ottawa? Why not allow my father to write to the Director--" Betts interrupted. "Come when you like, Mr. Edward. Thank you kindly. But--it's no good--no good." The voice dropped. With a slight gesture of farewell, Betts walked away. Newbury went on his road, a prey to very great disturbance of mind. The patience--humbleness even--of Betts's manner struck a pang to the young man's heart. The farm director was generally a man of bluff, outspoken address, quick-tempered, and not at all accustomed to mince his words. What Newbury perceived was a man only half persuaded by his own position; determined to cling to it, yet unable to justify it, because, in truth, the ideas put up against him by Newbury and his father were the ideas on which a large section of his own life had been based. It is not for nothing that a man is for years a devout communicant, and in touch thereby with all the circle of beliefs on which Catholicism, whether of the Roman or Anglican sort, depends. The white towers of Coryston appeared among the trees. His steps quickened. Would she come to meet him? Then his mind filled with repugnance. _Must_ he discuss this melancholy business again with her--with Marcia? How could he? It was not right!--not seemly! He thought with horror of the interview between her and Mrs. Betts--his stainless Marcia, and that little besmirched woman, of whose life between the dissolution of her first marriage, and her meeting with Betts, the Newburys knew more than they wished to know, more, they believed, than Betts himself knew. And the whole June day protested with him--its beauty, the clean radiance of the woods, the limpid flashing of the stream.... He hurried on. Ah, there she was!--a fluttering vision through the new-leafed trees. The wood was deep--spectators none. She came to his arms, and lightly clasped her own round his neck, hiding her face.... When they moved on together, hand in hand, Marcia, instinctively putting off what must be painful, spoke first of the domestic scene of the day before--of Arthur and her mother--and the revelation sprung upon them all. "You remember how _terrified_ I was--lest mother should know? And she's taken it so calmly!"