Of Hilary's inner life, while absent from his home, John Prout naturally heard nothing, and it was a woman, not a man, who shared the farmer's confidence. He had striven to seek escape of mind from Sarah Jane in the society of other women; and he had failed. He spent very little time in London, and found himself glad to quit it again. His old enjoyment thereof was dead. The place offended him, choked him, bored him. He had no desire towards any of its pleasures while there. Instead, he grew anxious about his health. In Kent he found himself happier, yet the conditions of agriculture, rather than any personal relations with kindred, occupied his days. The hops gave him much interest. His cousins and their friends found him cold and indifferent. Sarah Jane's image haunted his loneliness, and her picture in his mind's eye was a lovelier and more tangible thing to him than the living shapes of the amiable young women he met. He had devoted a day to purchasing the silver cup for Sarah Jane's baby; and on return home he had pleased Daniel greatly by his attitude towards the infant. "I would have offered to be a godparent," he explained to Brendon; "but you must take the will for the deed. With my views I could not have done so, and you would not have desired it. Nevertheless, I wish your child every good. 'Twill be a pleasant thing presently to have a little one about the place; and it should make us all younger again." Brendon was gratified, and since his master henceforth adopted extreme care in his approach to Sarah Jane, relations proceeded in a manner very satisfactory to all. But fierce fires burnt in both men out of sight. One's natural jealousy and suspicion kept him keenly alive to every shadow on the threshold of his home's honour; the other knew now with absolute knowledge that Brendon's wife was the first and greatest thought in his mind. Passionately he desired her. He believed that his own life was not destined to be lengthy, and his interests largely narrowed to this woman. Of late ethics wearied him. He was impressed with the futility of the eternal theme. For a season he sickened of philosophy and self-restraint. He found Sarah Jane lovelier, sweeter, more distracting every way than when he left her. At Ruddyford no opportunity offered to see her alone. Then, as he knew they must when taking the Lydford cottage, chances began to occur. She often came with the butter for Mrs. Weekes, and Friday was a fever day for Woodrow, until he saw her pass his dwelling on the way to the village. Once they spoke at some length together, for he was riding back to the farm for an hour or two. The time was dry and cold. A powder of snow scattered the ground, but the air braced, though the grey north spoke of heavier snow to come.