Yet Maurice often thought of Lily. And now that he was no longer bowed under the tyranny of a shattered nervous system he felt a new tenderness for her. He recalled her devotion and no longer linked her with his persecution. He remembered her unselfishness. He wished her back again. And then--he remembered all his misery, and that, with her, it went. And his selfishness said to him--it is better so. And his mental cowardice whispered to him--your safety is in your solitude. And he put the memory of Lily's love and of the beauty of her nature from him. So his silent autumn passed by. And his silent winter came. One day, in a December frost, he met the Canon, muffled up to the chin and on his way to see Miss Bigelow, who professed herself once again _in extremis_. They stopped in the snow and spoke a few commonplace words, but Maurice thought he observed a peculiar furtiveness in the old man's manner, a hint of some suppressed excitement in his voice. "How is Lily?" Maurice asked. "Fairly well," the Canon said. "She is still at the inn?" "No, she lately moved into a little house further up the valley." "Further up the valley," Maurice said. "But there's only one other house in that direction. I have been there you know," he added hastily. "Lily told me you had stayed there." "Well, but--" Maurice persisted, "there is only one house, a private house." "They have been building up there," the Canon said evasively. "Houses are springing up. It is a pity. Good-night." And he turned and walked away. Maurice stood looking after him. So they had been building in the valley, and End Cottage no longer possessed the distinction of being the finale of man in that Arcadia of woods and streams, and rugged hills on which the clouds brooded, from which the rain came like a mournful pilgrim, to weep over the gentle shrine of nature. So they had been building in the valley. Maurice made his way home. His mind was full of memories.