He did not stir, but watched her with clasped hands, like one who in dreams finds himself in some fairy palace, and fears that a movement may break the spell. 'Now, go,' she said; 'go, and let me collect my thoughts. All this has been too much for me. Do not look sad--you may come again to- morrow.' She smiled and held out her hand. He caught it, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to his heart. She half drew it back, frightened. The sensation was new to her. Again the delicious feeling of being utterly in his power came over her, and she left her hand upon his heart, and blushed as she felt its passionate throbbings. He turned to go--not as before. She followed with greedy eyes her new-found treasure; and as the door closed behind him, she felt as if Lancelot was the whole world, and there was nothing beside him, and wondered how a moment had made him all in all to her; and then she sank upon her knees, and folded her hands upon her bosom, and her prayers for him were like the prayers of a little child. CHAPTER XI: THUNDERSTORM THE FIRST But what had become of the 'bit of writing' which Harry Verney, by the instigation of his evil genius, had put into the squire's fly- book? Tregarva had waited in terrible suspense for many weeks, expecting the explosion which he knew must follow its discovery. He had confided to Lancelot the contents of the paper, and Lancelot had tried many stratagems to get possession of it, but all in vain. Tregarva took this as calmly as he did everything else. Only once, on the morning of the eclaircissement between Lancelot and Argemone, he talked to Lancelot of leaving his place, and going out to seek his fortune; but some spell, which he did not explain, seemed to chain him to the Priory. Lancelot thought it was the want of money, and offered to lend him ten pounds whenever he liked; but Tregarva shook his head. 'You have treated me, sir, as no one else has done--like a man and a friend; but I am not going to make a market of your generosity. I will owe no man anything, save to love one another.' 'But how do you intend to live?' asked Lancelot, as they stood together in the cloisters. 'There's enough of me, sir, to make a good navigator if all trades fail.' 'Nonsense! you must not throw yourself away so.' 'Oh, sir, there's good to be done, believe me, among those poor fellows. They wander up and down the land like hogs and heathens, and no one tells them that they have a soul to be saved. Not one parson in a thousand gives a thought to them. They can manage old folks and little children, sir, but, somehow, they never can get hold of the young men--just those who want them most. There's a talk about ragged schools, now. Why don't they try ragged churches, sir, and a ragged service?' 'What do you mean?'