All this clearly indicated that Gundred’s interference was urgently needed in the cause of holiness. Day by day she watched the situation, feeling more and more certain that her mission was the rescue of her husband. He, meanwhile, bore hourly, with increasing pain, the tantalizing torments of his paradoxical proximity to the thing he had so long looked for and now had found in vain. Ivor Restormel wondered at his good fortune, and only occasionally noticed the crochets of Kingston and Gundred. Of the two, Gundred had by far the more tactful temperament. Her dislike, now fast verging towards religious horror, was not to be discerned except by an eye far more keen than Ivor Restormel’s. A serene gravity, a cool calm were so much the dominant characteristics of her nature that the exaggeration of her gravity, the additional chill in her calm passed unnoticed by one so little practised in observation. The restless eagerness of Kingston was more plain and more distressing. Ivor Restormel sometimes wondered what it was that he did or failed to do that so roused disappointment and annoyance in this friend who never really seemed a friend, and yet had gratuitously done so much for him. However, he was not of a temper to let such matters oppress him. He put them behind him, and disregarded any tension that he might ever be inclined to discern in his relations with his employer or his employer’s wife. So the days passed unsatisfactorily by, until the time came for the family’s removal to Ivescar. Deep in his heart Kingston had a dim hope that the sight of Ivescar might once more rekindle a flash of memory in the boy. It was with trembling anxiety that he watched the first impressions that Ivor received from his first sight of the Yorkshire moors. Would the veil lift again, for even the briefest glance from the soul that dwelt behind? Brakelond had roused the sleeping personality in the boy; surely it was only to be expected that Ivescar, where so much had happened, could do no less? And Ivor gratified Kingston’s hope up to a certain point--only, as before, in doing so to rouse a keener desire. For from the first sight he instinctively loved the mountain-country, entered into its charm, appreciated the solemn majesty of it. He felt, he said, as if he had known it all his life, as if he and the hills were friends of long standing. And Kingston, hearing this, listened with quiet face but with a heart agonized in suspense. The door seemed to be drawing ajar for a greater revelation. The very next moment might bring some recognition. Kingston would not admit to himself the hopelessness of his hope. Eagerly he waited for what the boy might say next. And the door opened no further, but closed again as fast as ever. Never again could that hidden consciousness of Ivor’s wake to know itself. The expectation that it ever would was groundless, tormenting, delusive as all the pleasures held out by false desire. Kingston suffered more than ever, as each fresh