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explained by the expression that some one is passing over the earth that
will one day form your grave—"Ellinor! this is not a day for out-of-door
tea. I never felt so chilly a spot in my life. I cannot keep from
shaking where I sit. I must leave this place, my dear, in spite of all
your good tea."
    "Oh, papa! I am so sorry. But look how full that hot sun's rays come on
this turf. I thought I had chosen such a capital spot!"
    But he got up and persisted in leaving the table, although he was
evidently sorry to spoil the little party. He walked up and down the
gravel walk, close by them, talking to them as he kept passing by and
trying to cheer them up.
    "Are you warmer now, papa?" asked Ellinor.
    "Oh, yes! All right. It's only that place that seems so chilly and
damp. I'm as warm as a toast now."
    The next morning Mr. Corbet left them. The unseasonably fine weather
passed away too, and all things went back to their rather grey and dreary
aspect; but Ellinor was too happy to feel this much, knowing what absent
love existed for her alone, and from this knowledge unconsciously
trusting in the sun behind the clouds.
    I have said that few or none in the immediate neighbourhood of Hamley,
beside their own household and Mr. Ness, knew of Ellinor's engagement. At
one of the rare dinner-parties to which she accompanied her father—it
was at the old lady's house who chaperoned her to the assemblies—she was
taken in to dinner by a young clergyman staying in the neighbourhood. He
had just had a small living given to him in his own county, and he felt
as if this was a great step in his life. He was good, innocent, and
rather boyish in appearance. Ellinor was happy and at her ease, and
chatted away to this Mr. Livingstone on many little points of interest
which they found they had in common: church music, and the difficulty
they had in getting people to sing in parts; Salisbury Cathedral, which
they had both seen; styles of church architecture, Ruskin's works, and
parish schools, in which Mr. Livingstone was somewhat shocked to find
that Ellinor took no great interest. When the gentleman came in from the
dining-room, it struck Ellinor, for the first time in her life, that her
father had taken more wine than was good for him. Indeed, this had
rather become a habit with him of late; but as he always tried to go
quietly off to his own room when such had been the case, his daughter had
never been aware of it before, and the perception of it now made her
cheeks hot with shame. She thought that everyone must be as conscious of
his altered manner and way of speaking as she was, and after a pause of
sick silence, during which she could not say a word, she set to and
talked to Mr. Livingstone about parish schools, anything, with redoubled
vigour and apparent interest, in order to keep one or two of the company,
at least, from noticing what was to her so painfully obvious.
    The effect of her behaviour was far more than she had intended. She kept
Mr. Livingstone, it is true, from observing her father, but she also
riveted his attention on herself. He had thought her very pretty and
agreeable during dinner: but after dinner he considered her bewitching,
irresistible. He dreamed of her all night, and wakened up the next
morning to a calculation of how far his income would allow him to furnish
his pretty new parsonage with that crowning blessing, a wife. For a day
or two he did up little sums, and sighed, and thought of Ellinor, her
face listening with admiring interest to his sermons, her arm passed into
his as they went together round the parish; her sweet voice instructing
classes in his schools—turn where he would, in his imagination Ellinor's
presence rose up before him.
    The consequence was that he wrote an offer, which he found a far more
perplexing piece of composition than a sermon; a real hearty expression
of love, going on, over all obstacles, to a straightforward explanation
of his present prospects and future hopes, and