"You are much stronger, I see," said Jarner, in reply to her greeting. "That comes of walking in the open air, and of mixing more with your fellow-creatures. Hey, ma'm! There is nothing like exercise and society for bringing back the roses to pale cheeks." "I think it is more than exercise or society," replied Miss Linisfarne, joyously, and glanced at the portrait. The vicar glanced also, but wilfully chose to misinterpret her meaning. It was his intention to make her confession as difficult as possible, and, if there was any chance, to avert it altogether. "Hey, ma'm! Are you in love with Sir Alurde?" "No. Not with Sir Alurde," said Miss Linisfarne, pointedly; "but with some one who greatly resembles him." "And who may that be?" asked Jarner, dryly. "Cannot you guess? I have sent for you in order to speak on this very subject." The vicar pretended to search his memory, and shook his head with feigned vexation. "No, Miss Linisfarne; I cannot guess with whom you are infatuated." "Infatuated, sir!" she cried, starting to her feet. "Does the word displease you, ma'm?" "It is hardly courteous. Is love so ridiculous in a woman that you should hesitate to use the word?" "Love!" repeated Jarner, reflectively. "I think you told me, Miss Linisfarne, that you had loved many years ago, and had lost your lover." "I did," said she, paling at the irony of his accent. "Pardon me, if my memory fails," he continued; "but you also informed me that your love ended in disaster--that your heart was dead, and that for such reason you buried yourself in our solitudes.", Miss Linisfarne covered her face with her hands. All the joy had died out of her eyes, and she looked the miserable woman she was. "For twenty years and more you have lived here," continued Jarner, ponderously, "and all that time have remained faithful to the memory of that early passion. With the details you have not seen fit to honour me; but I can guess your story." She lifted her haggard face in surprise, but he took no notice of the action. "You loved and lost, ma'm, and so sought to be constant in this solitude to your dead lover. For twenty years you have been faithful. Why, then," added the vicar, pointing to the picture,--"why, then, let that displace his image in your heart? It is sacrilege to the dead." "You do not understand!" "Ay, ma'm, I understand well enough. I also have noted the resemblance which chains you to that portrait. You love the young man who calls himself Dan." "I do!" she cried with a bright flush. "Is there dishonour in such a love?" "Ay, to the dead!" "Tush! You know not of what you speak, sir. I have not made you my father confessor. I love this man. What have you to say against it? He is handsome, he is a gentleman, he is of a noble nature." "I grant all that, but----"