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Title: Midst granite hills
        The story of a Dartmoor holiday

Author: Eglanton Thorne


        
Release date: August 27, 2026 [eBook #79459]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Leisure Hour Office, 1891

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79459


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIDST GRANITE HILLS ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.



                         MIDST GRANITE HILLS.


                   THE STORY OF A DARTMOOR HOLIDAY.


                                 BY

                           EGLANTON THORNE

      Author of "My Brother's Friend," "Aldyth's Inheritance," etc.


                        The Girl's Own Annual
                           VOL. XII. 1891.
                      [THE LEISURE HOUR OFFICE]
                     LONDON, 56 PATERNOSTER ROW



                              CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

   I. A BUSINESS TRANSACTION

  II. TREMATON-IN-THE-MOOR

 III. NEW FRIENDS

  IV. AN UNWARRANTABLE LIBERTY

   V. FORGIVEN



                         MIDST GRANITE HILLS.


CHAPTER I.

A BUSINESS TRANSACTION.

IT was the second day of August, and a close, oppressive day. At this
date the Cambridge colleges are supposed to be deserted, but still
occasionally gowned figures might be seen in the High Street, or young
men in summer suits, who had the unmistakable air of undergraduates.
One such was loitering this afternoon on the pavement near the entrance
to Trinity. He was a man of about four-and-twenty, with strong,
well-knit frame, a dark complexion, which the sun had brought to a rich
warmth of hue, and fine dark eyes. No one would have hesitated to call
Arthur Seaton good-looking, and his good looks were of a kind that
could not fail to please. The frank, kindly look of his dark eyes was
not their least charm. The lower part of his face was finely moulded,
the mouth being especially good, with delicate, clear-cut lips,
certifying refinement, and perhaps some sensitiveness of nature.

Some of his acquaintance were wont to apply the epithet "aristocratic"
to Arthur Seaton's appearance; but then they were aware that Arthur
was heir to his uncle, the Hon. and Rev. St. Clair Seaton, rector
of Trematon-in-the-Moor, and owner of a considerable estate in the
neighbourhood, of which few persons could give a more definite account
than that it was somewhere in the wilds of Dartmoor; for the rector was
a bachelor of shy, retiring habits, content to remain buried in the
country from one year's end to another.

Arthur Seaton was staying on at his college through the "Long" in order
to read. He was destined for the Bar, a profession held eminently
suited to youths who find their bread buttered, and thickly buttered
too, without any exertion of their own. Truth to tell, the young
gentleman was not of a studious disposition. He had suffered the days
of the past term to slip by and yield him but a scanty gleaning of
knowledge; and now he had to work hard in order to make up for lost
time. But he was in earnest at last. He meant to satisfy his "coach,"
and fulfil the expectations of his uncle.

It cost him something to stay on at Cambridge during the brilliant
summer weather. He had at this moment in his pocket a letter from his
uncle, urging that it was time he should, for the sake of his health,
exchange the warm, heavy atmosphere of the university town, for the
keen, bracing breezes of Dartmoor. Surely, wrote his uncle, such
reading he still needed to do could as well be done in the quietude of
Trematon Rectory as in his rooms at college.

Arthur felt the truth of his uncle's words. The calm of the out of
the world moorland village might, indeed, be held well suited to the
student; but, as a matter of fact, Arthur had always found it well-nigh
impossible to settle to books when at Trematon. He had a passion for
life in the open air. The wild, heathery slopes, strewn with granite,
and crested by craggy tors, were his favourite haunts. He loved to
wander over them in almost any weather, save the blinding mist which
renders such solitudes impenetrable. The happy days of his childhood
had been passed at Trematon, and he knew every hillside, every crag,
and every hollow for miles round. The neighbourhood had for him a
fascination he could find in no other region. On horseback or on foot,
with or without gun or fishing-rod, and with no companion save his dog,
he could spend whole days on the moors and know no weariness. It was a
strange freak of fortune that imposed upon a being so constituted the
necessity for a university course.

The temptation presented by his uncle's letter was strong, but Arthur
resisted it manfully.

"No," he said to himself, half pausing on the kerb, and striking his
boot with the light cane he carried, as if to emphasize his resolve,
"no, not yet, my boy. I'll grind on here for another fortnight, and
'then' I shall feel safe. After that, not all the 'coaches' in the
world shall keep me another hour at Cambridge."

He looked up. A slight, trim, girlish figure was coming through the old
gateway of Trinity. The appearance of the girl was familiar to Seaton,
though he could claim no acquaintance with her. He knew that she was
sister to Erith, a man who had taken his degree with high honours at
the cost of his health, having been stricken with a dangerous illness
immediately after the examination. He was now convalescent, and Seaton
had believed him to have left Cambridge, till this meeting with his
sister proved the contrary.

Arthur knew little of Erith. Their rooms were in different quadrangles,
and Erith did not belong to Seaton's set. Yet he felt considerable
sympathy for the poor fellow when he heard of his breakdown. He was
interested, too, in what he heard some of the men say about the pretty
sister, who had hastened to Erith as soon as he was taken ill, and was
nursing him with devoted care.

Arthur glanced curiously at the girl as she passed him. He had never
been so near to her before. Yes, they were right; she was pretty, but
how pale and delicate she looked, and what a sad expression her face
wore!

"He can't be worse, surely!" said Arthur to himself, as he walked on
down the street, keeping in sight the neat little form, clad in rather
shabby black. "I suppose she has worn herself out waiting on her
brother, and he, brother like, cannot see that she is overtaxing her
strength."

Having no sister of his own, Arthur could animadvert on the ways of
brothers with an easy conscience. It sometimes made him indignant to
see what a careless, offhand manner his friends adopted towards their
sisters; and he was persuaded that, if he had had a sister, his conduct
towards her would have been very different.

Arthur kept his eyes upon Miss Erith, and presently saw her enter
a shop. It was a watchmaker's shop, and one much patronised by the
students, for in addition to his more ordinary stock, the shopkeeper
dealt largely in curios, and there was rather a rage for his quaint
metal-work and rare ornaments amongst the wealthier undergraduates.
Arthur Seaton knew the watchmaker well. He had been drawn to the
old man by the discovery that he came from Devonshire, and he would
often pass an idle quarter of an hour in his shop, turning over his
curiosities and chatting to him the while.

Arthur halted now outside the shop, and stood gazing at the strange
medley of articles displayed in the window. A quaintly carved
tobacco-box met his eye, and he decided to enter and ask its price. He
believed that he would have done so in any case, but certain it is that
a desire to look again at Erith's sister prompted the impulse.

The door of the shop stood open, and he entered noiselessly. The
watchmaker's eyes were examining, through their big, thick-rimmed
spectacles, a large, handsome gold watch which he held in his hand.
The girl was watching his countenance with an intent, anxious glance.
Neither was aware that another customer had entered. Arthur turned
aside to examine a Japanese gong. The next moment he felt almost like
an eavesdropper as he stood half hidden by a glass screen, for he
perceived that Miss Erith's business was not that of a purchaser, but
of a seller.

"It was my father's watch," he heard her say. "I would not part with it
if I were not obliged. I feel sure I can rely on you to give me what is
right for it."

"Ay, that will I. Mr. Erith knows I'm an honest dealer. Too honest for
my trade, I think sometimes; for though honesty may be the best policy,
it does not bring in large profits nowadays. But how is Mr. Erith
getting on? Did I see him driving past here the other day?"

"Yes, we have had one or two drives. He is better, but very weak still.
The doctor says all he wants now is bracing air. We must get away
somehow, but it is so difficult to arrange. To tell you the truth, Mr.
Shears, my brother's long illness has drained our funds, and that is
why I need to sell these things. Would you look at this necklet? It was
my mother's, and I know it is good."

The colour deepened in Arthur Seaton's face as he listened. He wished
himself out of the way, and yet he was deeply interested in what was
passing. He had heard it remarked that Erith was as poor as a church
mouse, but he had not known till now what that meant. It is difficult
for one with ample means to realize the shifts and straits to which
refined poverty may be reduced. It touched him to see the young girl
laying out her few valuable possessions, and waiting anxiously to hear
what they would fetch. Yet he admired her the while.

He was struck with the noble simplicity with which she spoke of their
difficulties. Apparently she was too proud to be ashamed of her
poverty. And again he was struck with the appearance of the pale,
delicate face, shaded by brown wavy hair, and the clear gray eyes, that
had so sad a look. He fancied they were eyes not meant to be sad. He
would like to see them laugh and flash with mischief. The young face
was wronged by its shadow of anxiety.

It was impossible to move now without attracting notice, so Arthur
waited and heard the bargain finally settled, and saw the money handed
across the counter. The young girl put it into her purse with an air of
relief. But she had yet another matter to discuss ere she quitted the
shop.

"Mr. Shears," she said, "my brother tells me that you know Devonshire."

"To be sure. I'm Devon born and bred. Ashburton is my native place."

"Is it, really? That is strange! My mother lived near Ashburton before
she married—but I have never been in Devonshire."

"Indeed, miss, then more's the pity. There's no county like it, to my
mind."

"I want to go there. My brother and I have been talking about it. The
doctor has suggested Dartmoor for him. I was wondering whether you
could tell me of any place where we might get lodgings which would not
cost much. I thought we might perhaps get taken in at some farmhouse.
We would not mind how humble the accommodation was, and the more out of
the way the place, the better."

"I see," said the old man. "Now, if you'd asked me a few weeks ago, I
could have told you of the very place. I have a cousin who lives in a
cottage near Ashburton, and I know you'd have been comfortable with
her, and have found her terms reasonable. But then her rooms are let
for the whole of August, I know, and so I believe are all the lodgings
round Dartmoor by this time."

"Are they? What a pity!" said the girl, with a look of disappointment.
"Well, then, I suppose we must think of some other part."

"Ay, it is a pity," returned the watchmaker. "It would have done Mr.
Erith a sight of good to go to Dartmoor. There's no air like Dartmoor
air. Well, I'll turn it over in my mind, miss, and if I can think of
anything likely, I'll let you know."

"Thank you; I shall be much obliged to you," said Miss Erith, as she
turned and walked out of the shop without catching sight of Arthur
Seaton.

He advanced to the counter.

"Good-day, Mr. Shears."

"Good-day, sir," said the astonished shopkeeper. "Have you been waiting
long? I never saw you till this moment."

"Only a few minutes. I would not disturb your business with the lady.
I heard her enquiry about Dartmoor lodgings, and I believe I know of a
place that would suit her."

"Do you really, sir? To be sure you know Dartmoor as well as I do
myself. But what kind of lodgings are they? She wants something very
cheap."

"Oh, she might have these for—I mean, they would be very cheap."

"Ah! That's right; for, between you and me, they have very little
money, poor things. That long illness has been a great strain on them,
and I fancy they are almost friendless. I knew their mother well by
sight when I was a lad. She was an orphan, and the adopted niece of a
wealthy squire, who, it was believed, would provide handsomely for her.
But she offended him sorely by insisting on marrying an Irish officer,
with nothing to depend on but his pay; and the old squire washed his
hands of her. And when he died, there was nothing for her in his will."

"Poor woman! That was hard lines for her."

"Ay, it was, though many said it was no worse than she deserved. Such a
bright, dashing girl she was, and so indulged and petted, that it was
little wonder she could not bear to have her will crossed. I always
felt sorry for her myself. She has been dead now many a year, and the
father is dead too, I understand."

"Where is Miss Erith's home then, I wonder?"

"She lives somewhere in London. She was a music-teacher in a school,
I believe, but she threw up her situation in order to come to her
brother. They say she plays beautifully. But there, I ought not to
repeat these things. I only heard them from Mr. Erith's gyp."

"They are safe with me," said Arthur Seaton. "Mr. Shears, I wish you
would let me look at that watch you have just purchased. I believe it
is one of the kind I have been looking for."

The watchmaker was at a loss to understand what there was in the
old-fashioned hunting watch to attract a gentleman like Mr. Seaton,
but he was used to the vagaries of rich young men, and showed no
surprise as Arthur proceeded to examine the timekeeper with the air of
a connoisseur. But when, having made a fair bargain for the watch, the
gentleman began to negotiate for the necklet also, an amused, knowing
twinkle appeared in the old man's eyes.

"You won't forget the lodgings, sir," he said, as Arthur took up his
purchases, and was about to quit the shop. "Could you give me the
address?"

"Hum—ha—not at this moment," replied Arthur, with some slight
embarrassment. "I must think—I must make enquiries. You shall hear from
me about it."

"Thank you, sir."

Arthur stepped into the street with his gayest air. As he walked
quickly towards his rooms, he looked like a person who had heard good
news.

"What a happy thought of mine," he said to himself. "My godmother's
bequest will be of some good to me at last. That old farmhouse will be
the very place for them. But how can I manage, without hurting their
pride, to make them understand that no payment is necessary? I have it.
Miss Erith plays beautifully, he said. Then of course—yes, that will
do. What a grand idea! I'll write to my uncle at once."

Arrived at his rooms, Arthur Seaton set to work to carry out his grand
idea without loss of time. Sitting down at his writing-table, he dashed
off a letter to his uncle. After excusing himself from yielding to his
uncle's wish that he should return to Trematon forthwith, and giving
excellent reasons for remaining, though sorely against his inclination,
yet another fortnight at Cambridge, Arthur approached the subject that
filled his mind.

     "Now, dear uncle," he wrote, "I want you to help me to 'do good by
  stealth' for once in my life. Your reward will be, I trust, relief from
  the difficulty with respect to the organ playing in which you have been
  placed by the departure of Miss Anstey from the parish. There is a
  man here just recovering from a long illness, the result of overwork.
  He broke down after his exam., and his sister, a hard-working music
  governess, had to be summoned to nurse him. I have not the pleasure
  of their acquaintance, but I feel much for them, as I understand that
  they are very badly off, and that whilst the doctor has ordered him
  away to bracing air, the difficulty of meeting the expense makes it
  almost impossible for them to obey his orders. I have been thinking
  of Torhill, my godmother's old home. Her rooms have not been occupied
  since she died. Why should not these two have the use of them? The
  situation is splendid. It seems a shame that the dwelling should be
  tenanted only by Sparks and his wife whilst those to whom it would be
  new life to sojourn there for a while languish in town.

     "You will understand that I could not bear to receive payment for the
  rooms; and yet, being unknown to these two—their name is Erith—I do not
  feel myself in a position to offer the free use of them.

     "Could you not write to Miss Erith, saying that her name has been
  mentioned to you as a skilled musician, and asking if it would be
  agreeable to her to spend six weeks at Trematon, and undertake to play
  the organ at your Sunday services? You could offer her the tenancy of
  Torhill in lieu of payment, and I am sure she would thankfully accept
  your offer.

     "Please do not pooh-pooh the idea, or dismiss it as absurd, till you
  have reflected upon it. I rather pride myself on its astuteness. Hoping
  soon to hear that you have written to Miss Erith,—

            "I remain,—

       "Your affectionate nephew,

                 "ARTHUR SEATON."

"That will be all right," thought Arthur, smiling, as he closed the
envelope. "I can trust uncle to do as I wish. There is but one point at
which my little scheme can break down. It would be deplorable if the
organ should not be Miss Erith's instrument. But she can surely play
it a little. I wish I had told uncle to hint that there are no musical
critics to be found in the Trematon congregation."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

TREMATON-IN-THE-MOOR.

ON a bright evening in the following week, a chaise, drawn by a sturdy
horse, and driven by a ruddy-faced man of Devon, was conveying a
lady and gentleman along a moorland road towards the little hamlet
of Trematon. It was a good new road, of which the dwellers in the
neighbourhood were justly proud, and wound along the side of a heathery
hill, at a height which commanded a lovely view of the deep green
valley below, through which, overhung by trees, a stream made its way.
Dashing through the heather, dipping under the road, and re-appearing
on the lower slope, a tiny torrent made its way, by sharp zigzags, to
join the larger stream far down, where the hills met and interlocked,
forming a fair green valley. The sun's parting rays were on the
hill-tops, and they glowed a beautiful pink.

"Did you ever see anything so lovely?" Grace Erith asked her brother,
in delighted tones, as the chaise slowly ascended the steep road; for
though they were on such high ground, the way was still up-hill.

"It is grand indeed," replied her brother. "People may rave as they
will about the beauties of Switzerland, but, after all, there is no
mean scenery to be found in our own country. I am content with this."

"I am more than content," said Grace. "Is not this air delicious? I
feel as if I wanted to shout and sing. But it is rather keen. You are
not feeling cold, Stanley?" And she leaned forward to draw his wraps
more closely about him.

"Not at all. This air is just what I want. It seems to give me new life
already. Look at that rocky ridge, Grace. What a grand, rugged crest!
We must try to get to the top of that some day."

"That's Rocksbro' Cleave," said the driver, indicating it with his
whip; "the village is below, on the other side. It's not much of a
place, Rocksbro', and you'd find the road to it very bad. There's just
a tourist path, that's all. They tourists goes to it, but no one else
as can help it."

The brother and sister exchanged amused glances.

"He evidently regards tourists as a despicable order of beings,"
whispered Grace. "But what are we coming to now?"

The road no longer ascended. The driver whipped up his horse, and in
another minute they were in the shelter of thick woods. They looked
down into depths of green shade, through which came the music of
rushing water.

"There are falls below," said the man. "People 'll come a long way
to see 'em, but they're not much to see at this time of year. In the
winter, when there's a sight of water coming over the rocks, they're
worth seeing."

A break in the trees now revealed a gateway, a lodge, and a broad
carriage-drive.

"That's the way to the house—Trematon House," explained the driver.

"Ah! Who lives there?" enquired Erith.

"No one, just now. It belongs to the parson, but he prefers to live
at the rectory, though it is a much smaller house. He often lets this
place. It will be Mr. Arthur's home when he marries, I reckon."

"Mr. Arthur?" said Grace, enquiringly.

"Aye, Mr. Arthur Seaton, the parson's nephew. His father and mother
both died out in India when he was a little chap, and the parson
brought him up as if he was his own child."

"Are we getting near Trematon, then?" asked Stanley Erith.

"Aye, we're getting nigh it, but Torhill lies a mile on the other side.
You'll see the church when we come from under the trees."

"I am sure I shall like the 'parson,'" said Grace, in a low tone, to
her brother; "I can never feel grateful enough to him for inviting me
to become temporary organist. I do wonder how he heard of me, and what
put it into his head to do such a thing. It seems really as if he must
have known that we wanted to come to Dartmoor."

"Yes, indeed; it all fits in like a story. They say 'Truth is stranger
than fiction,' but I was never convinced of it till now. Ah! There is
the church!"

The tall, square tower came into view, backed by a grand mass of
moorland rocks. They drove on through a winding Devonshire lane, and
presently came out at the foot of the village green. Facing them,
two low thatched cottages represented respectively the shop and the
beerhouse of the place. The church, and a long, low, ivy-clad house,
stood at the left. To the right, an open gate gave access to a large
farmyard, from which a flock of ducks were slowly waddling out. Higher
up, a fine old stone gateway appeared, the entrance to the rectory
grounds.

"So this is Trematon," said Erith, amused. "Well, I did not expect a
bustling place, but I must say I thought it was somewhat larger than
this."

"Aye, Trematon's a poor place," said the driver, contemptuously. "And
no wonder, so out of the way as it is—six miles from a railway station."

"I like it all the better for that," said Grace, enthusiastically. "Oh,
I call it a charming place, so rural, so peaceful! And the lovely hills
all around! It is a place to be happy in!"

Her raptures increased as they drove on.

"There's Torhill," said the driver, pointing out a farmhouse, which
stood amidst fields on the edge of the moor. "You'll be quiet enough
there, I reckon."

In a few minutes they were jolting down a rough, uneven road to the
house. They drew up in the midst of the farmyard. A comely, buxom
woman, with rosy cheeks and fine, dark eyes, came from the back door
and advanced to welcome them.

"You'll not mind getting down here, miss," she said; "it's but a poor
approach to this place. But if you'll come this way, I'll see to your
luggage in a minute."

She led them through a little gate into a small flower garden, through
which ran the path to the front door. They entered a stone-flagged
passage, with rooms on either side. Within the room on the left the
table was laid for tea, with a bowl of asters in the centre. After
their long drive through the keen air, the home-made bread, the golden
butter, and the Devonshire cream looked very tempting to the travellers.

"Mr. Seaton told me you'd have had a long journey, and be glad of
something to eat when you arrived," said Mrs. Sparks. "Maybe you'd
like me to fry ye some eggs and bacon, or would you try a bit of our
home-cured ham?"

Grace decided in favour of the ham, and in a few minutes they sat
down to partake of the refreshment they so much needed. Grace had the
satisfaction of seeing her brother make a better meal than he had made
since his illness. By the time they had finished, it was almost dark.
And thoroughly weary, they soon unpacked and went to bed.


When Grace looked forth from her window the next morning, a lovely
prospect met her eyes. Before her stretched the moor, rising gradually
towards a lofty hill, crested with strange, irregular masses of rock.
A steep, winding road ran below it, and disappeared in the distance.
Grace learned afterwards that the road went to Ashburton, a place in
which she felt considerable interest. The scene was bathed in sunlight
when Grace first looked on it. But soon dark clouds came sweeping over
the hills, and by the time she was ready for breakfast, a fine driving
rain fell. But Mrs. Sparks assured her visitors that it was only a
shower, and would soon pass.

"Please, miss," she said, "if things are not as you like them, will you
be so good as to tell me so. I'll make you comfortable if I can, but
people's ways is so different. What pleases one won't do for another."

"I am sure we shall be comfortable," said Grace. "You will not find us
hard to please."

She was indeed charmed with their situation, and the quaint old-world
air of everything about the place; the spindle-legged furniture, the
beautiful old china, the ancient spinet, all seeming to belong to
another century, delighted her romantic mind.

"It's a very old house, as you can see," said Mrs. Sparks. "Miss
Dorothy Seaton, the rector's cousin, owned the place for over forty
years. She was a character, was Miss Dorothy. She used to farm the land
herself, and she knew what she was about too. She made the butter with
her own hands, and she'd ride to Ashburton to sell it with the basket
strapped behind her as she sat on horseback. She was Mr. Arthur's
godmother, and when she died, she left him Torhill. He put me and my
husband here to look after the farm. Mr. Arthur did say that he'd send
some gentlemen here for the shooting, but I'm glad he sent a lady."

"Oh, it was the rector who arranged about our coming," said Grace.

"I know that, miss," she replied; "and by-the-bye, the parson desired
his compliments, and I was to tell you the church will be open this
afternoon, if you'd like to try the organ. And he said as how he'd see
you had a list of the hymns for Sunday."

Grace cast a half-frightened glance at her brother.

"Oh, I do hope," she said, "that I shall be able to perform to his
satisfaction. What a good thing it is that I practised the organ a
little when at Seaborough. Otherwise, I dare not attempt this. I hope I
shall not have a critical audience."

"The parish'ners don't know much about music, miss, if that's what
you mean," said Mrs. Sparks, encouragingly. "Miss Anstey, our
school-mistress as was, used to play the organ, and I'm sure she often
made mistakes. One Sunday the singing broke down altogether."

"Dear me, you do not say so!" said Grace, smiling at Stanley across the
table. "Well, I hope I may be able to avoid such a catastrophe."

The shower soon passed, and was succeeded by brilliant sunshine. Grace
and her brother spent the morning on the moor.


In the afternoon he was obliged to rest, so she found her way alone to
the church. A path through fields led her into the churchyard, which
was beautified by a grand old yew, casting on one side a rich depth of
shadow. The church was of venerable aspect, and on entering, Grace was
much impressed by the interior, though it was very simple. Two rows of
granite pillars supported the whitewashed ceiling. The pews were of
dark oak, and quaintly carved. A beautiful carved screen, showing signs
of decay, separated the chancel from the area of the church. The organ
was within the screen, to the left. Someone had opened the keyboard in
readiness for her, and she saw at once that the instrument was of great
age, the keys being discoloured, and some of them denuded of their
ivory. Grace sat down and struck a few chords. The response was better
than she expected.

Despite its age, the organ was still full-toned and sweet. Grace began
to play an air of Handel's with such ease as proved there was little
fear of her breaking down at the Sunday service. As the melody floated
through the church, someone entered by a narrow doorway behind her. She
looked up, and met the earnest, searching gaze of an elderly gentleman,
of tall form and somewhat stately bearing, but with a face of such
grave, calm, spiritual beauty that she knew in a moment he was one to
be trusted and loved.

"Miss Erith, I believe," he said, and bowed. "Pray do not let me
interrupt your playing. I hope you do not find the organ out of tune."

But Grace had risen as she returned his bow, and she did not at once
resume playing.

"Oh, no, I think not," she said quickly. "I am but a poor judge of such
an instrument, but I like the tone of this."

"I am glad of that—indeed, I am very glad you have come to our help.
Since the departure of our late organist, we have had to dispense with
the instrument at our services, and trust to our chief singer, the
village blacksmith, to raise the tune. But now you have come, we shall
get on grandly."

"You cannot know how glad I am to come," said Grace, earnestly. "My
brother, who is with me, wanted such a change so badly. I feel much
obliged to you for thinking of it. But I can't help wondering how you
came to hear of me."

"From my nephew, Arthur Seaton," said the rector, forgetting that his
nephew might not wish this fact to be mentioned. "He is at Trinity, you
know."

"Is he? I have not heard his name, and I can't think how he could know
about me. But perhaps Stanley can explain."

"My nephew will be here next week, so you can demand an explanation
from himself," said the gentleman, observing her smilingly. "But
now tell me about your brother. Do you really think he is regaining
strength?"

Grace was ever ready to talk about her brother. He was her hero, her
pride, the only being she had belonging to her in all the world.

She began to speak of the anxiety she had long felt concerning him,
his determination to win honours, her dread lest he should overwork,
the realisation of that dread, and his long, severe illness. As he
listened, the looks of the old clergyman expressed so much sympathy,
that she quite forgot how recent was her acquaintance with him, and
went on to tell him more and more of the history of herself and
brother. She had just told him that her brother hoped to enter the
church, when she remembered that Stanley, whose disposition was more
reserved than her own, might not be pleased that she should be so
communicative concerning him. She paused abruptly, and turned to
examine the music which lay close by the organ.

"Go on, my dear," said Mr. Seaton, gently. "I am interested in all you
tell me."

But Grace had doubts as to the prudence of saying more.

"I think I should practise now," said she. "Can you tell me what the
tunes will be?"

"This is the book Miss Anstey used. Here is the list. But I have not
the least doubt of your skill, with or without practice."

Grace began to play, with the expectation that the rector would now
retire. But he had no such intention.

He stood by her side as she tried over the tunes. Now and then he made
a remark, but for the most part, he seemed absorbed in listening to her
playing, and watching the changes of her bright, open face, from which
the shadow Arthur had seen on it had already been charmed away.

"I think I must be going now," said Grace, at last. "My brother will be
weary of his own company."

"You are a good sister, I can see. Is your name Grace?"

"It is," said the girl, colouring with surprise. "What made you guess
it?"

"I had a fancy that it might be so," he replied, colouring in his turn,
and looking away in a shy, embarrassed manner. After a moment, he
asked, "Have you ever been in this neighbourhood before, Miss Erith?"

"Never," she replied. "It is our first visit to Devonshire. It is
strange that it should be so, for our mother was brought up not far
from here."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, at Ashburton."

"And her name was Trevor," he said.

Grace was standing with her back towards him, gathering together the
sheets of music. She turned round in astonishment as he uttered her
mother's maiden name. The rector was not looking at her. His eyes
were on the stone floor, on which, with his stick, he was drawing an
imaginary diagram.

"Oh! Is it possible that you knew my mother?" she cried.

He turned quickly at the sound of her voice.

"Yes, my child," he said, in tones that betrayed some emotion; "I knew
well your mother, Grace Trevor. She and I were friends long ago. As
soon as I saw you, I guessed that you were her daughter. You will let
me be a friend to you and your brother for her sake?"

He extended his hand as he spoke, and Grace willingly placed hers in
it. The warm clasp seemed the promise of a strong, true friendship. It
was welcome to Grace, who without uncle or aunt, or any near relative
save her brother, had known a life of singular isolation.


She hurried back to Torhill to tell her brother what had passed.

"It is very strange," said Stanley Erith, as he and his sister
discussed the incidents that puzzled them; "it is very strange about
that fellow Seaton. I fancy I know him by sight, but that is all. His
set would look down on me at college. What can have led him to take
such an extraordinary interest in us?"

"I cannot tell," said Grace. "It is not as if he had known our mother.
And how could he tell that I was capable of officiating as organist? It
is all most mysterious."

"Well, I suppose we shall know some day," said Stanley, philosophically.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER III.

NEW FRIENDS.

THE rector walked home slowly and thoughtfully across the village
green, unconscious of the children who made their little bobs as he
passed them, or of his dog, who came bounding to meet him. A wonderful
thing had happened. All unexpectedly the closed pages of his past
history had been thrown back, and the one romance of his life lay open
before him once more. Fresh as ever, the incidents of his long buried
past rose again before his memory, causing the warm heart, which time
had not been able to chill, to throb with keen emotion.

Grace Trevor! The one love of his life! He had spoken truly when he
said that they had been friends, for on her side there had never been
any warmer feeling than that of friendship. The twelve years by which
his age had exceeded her own, had seemed to render it impossible that
she should regard him otherwise than as a friend and mentor.

But the squire who adopted her, the penniless orphan of an old
school friend—whose short life had been one continual buffeting with
fortune—and brought her up as his niece, had been anxious to ally her
with the good old family of the Seatons, and had seen in St. Clair
Seaton a most desirable match for her. It was the disappointment of
this hope, as well as his disapproval of the man she chose for herself,
which had so greatly incensed her guardian, and led him to alter his
will.

The rector was recalling, link by link, the course of the events in
which he had played no unimportant part. He had striven to save Grace
from the effects of her own folly, but without success. She had passed
out of his life when she quitted Ashburton, but he had not forgotten
her. There are some men—rare men they are—who cherish the memory of
their early loves. Such a one was St. Clair Seaton. He knew that Grace
Erith had made a hard lot for herself; he had longed to befriend her,
but the way had not been opened to him ere he received the sorrowful
news of her death.

But now, he told himself, as he entered his study, and sat down in
utter absent-mindedness before his writing-table, now at last it was
in his power to show what his friendship meant. It was surely not by
chance that Grace's son and daughter had been brought to Trematon. When
he read the name Erith in his nephew's letter, he had hoped that these
might prove to be her children. The hand of Providence had brought it
about that he might be their friend, for it was clear, from what the
girl had told him, that they needed a friend. Now he might prove the
strength and faithfulness of that love of long ago, by taking these,
Grace's children, into his care.

"It is strange that Arthur should have found them out," he mused. "Can
he have suspected—? But no, he knows nothing of all that; how should
he? Yet it seems that he has but the slightest acquaintance with this
girl and her brother. I wonder what led him to interest himself in
them."

"She is a sweet girl," he continued, his thoughts taking another
direction; "aye, and a pretty one too, though not to be compared
with her mother. I should like it well if—But there, what is the
good of building such castles in the air? Young men never choose as
their guardians wish them. If I let myself hope for such a thing, my
experience would be similar to that of most match-making elders."


Stanley Erith was surprised that the rector of Trematon should call
upon him early the next morning, but he felt the kindness that prompted
the visit. He was less at ease with strangers than was his sister, but
his shyness soon vanished before Mr. Seaton's friendliness. He was as
pleased with the courtly, kindly gentleman as was Grace, and the two
quickly became well acquainted.

The brother and sister were invited to lunch at the rectory on the
following day. They did so, and liked the rector even better as they
saw him in his home.

Though he had few visitors of his own age, Mr. Seaton was always ready
to entertain Arthur's friends. He was fond of young people, and got on
well with them.

The rector talked much of his nephew, who, it was plain, was very dear
to his uncle. Arthur's sayings and doings were related as though they
were of the utmost importance.

Grace listened with a curious thrill of interest. She half longed, half
dreaded to see this remarkable young man. It seemed so strange that he
should have been able to furnish such accurate information concerning
herself when she knew absolutely nothing of him.

After luncheon, the rector drove his guests to Ashburton, and showed
them the old house facing a green chase, and backed by spreading woods,
which had been the home of their mother's girlhood.

It was a lovely drive they took. At first, the way lay across the
broad, breezy moors, brilliant with heather and gorse, then through
deep Devonshire lanes, winding amidst beech-woods, they descended into
Ashburton, a quaint, picturesque little town, with a fine church. The
road home rose sharply above the bed of a rapid moorland river, dashing
through a rocky defile. Trees met overhead, wooded heights soared
above; each bend of the way revealed some fresh glimpse of Nature's
wildest, most romantic beauty.

How Grace enjoyed it all! But perhaps the chief pleasure the day had
for her was that she felt in listening as they drove along to what Mr.
Seaton told her about her mother's early life. His words were few and
guarded, but they had the deepest interest for Grace. And something in
the way in which he spoke of her, convinced the girl that her mother
had been very dear to him.

At the entrance to Torhill, Grace and her brother alighted and said
good-bye to Mr. Seaton.

As he drove away alone, Grace confided to Stanley that she felt as if
she had known the rector all her life.

"He is a dear old man," she said, warmly.

"Not so very old, either," returned Stanley.

But to Grace, anyone who had passed sixty appeared patriarchal.


One morning a few days later, Grace took her way to the village shop,
leaving Stanley in the house busy with letters.

The shop was the smallest place that could possibly be dignified by
such a name. Considering its limited space, it was wonderful what a
heterogeneous collection of articles were sold within. The window, in
which samples of almost every description of goods were displayed,
measured about three feet square. Not more than three customers could
stand at a time between the counter and the door, and these were in
constant danger of bringing down on them the canisters, loaves, cakes,
etc., piled in the background. As the business of the General Post
Office was also carried on at this establishment, it may be imagined
that the shopkeeper, a comely, good-natured woman, led a busy life.

Grace was the only customer this morning, and Miss Nosworthy was
disposed to chat as she waited on her.

"No, miss," she said, "I've none but this dandelion coffee; the people
'bout here likes it better than any other, 'cept the gentry, of course,
and they orders theirs from town. Sorry I can't oblige you, but I've
none other. Fruit? Ah! No, miss—that I don't sell. There's little
fruit to be had here for love or money. People just grows enough for
theirselves, that's all."

"Then I must do without," said Grace, smiling. "I'll leave the parcel,
please, Miss Nosworthy, and call for it presently."

"Very well, miss. It's a lovely morning for a walk. Mr. Arthur looked
in just now and he said the same. You'll have heard, I daresay, that
young Mr. Seaton came home last night."

"I knew that he was expected," replied Grace, colouring a little, she
could not have told why.

"My! How pleased the parson 'll be to have him home again. He is set
on him, to be sure; couldn't be more so if it were his own son. Mr.
Arthur's like the apple of his eye, so to speak. And I will say there
isn't a nicer, pleasanter-spoken young gentleman to be found anywhere.
Always the same, see him when you will. He looked in just now, as full
of his nonsense as ever. He loves to make fun of my shop, that he do.
Nothing would do, but he must have some of my 'bull's eyes,' but he'd
gived them all away to the school-children before he was half-way
across the green."

Here the entrance of another customer interrupted Miss Nosworthy's flow
of talk, and Grace made her escape. She turned towards the rugged pile
of rocks that rose behind the church. The top of the tor commanded
a beautiful view of the country for miles round, and Grace loved to
ascend it and enjoy the prospect whilst the morning was still fresh.

But as she made her way upwards by a winding path through bracken and
gorse, she perceived that someone had preceded her and taken possession
of the height. On the top-most rock sat a young man clad in grey tweed,
and wearing a peaked cap. No need to ask who this individual might be.
Grace was sure he was none other than Arthur Seaton. Not wishing to
intrude herself upon his notice, she gave up the idea of ascending at
present, and turning from the path, busied herself with gathering some
clusters of the mountain ash berries, which were beginning to glow a
deep crimson.

She wandered on over the broken ground at the foot of the hill,
carefully refraining from looking up, but aware none the less that the
individual perched on the rock above was observing all her movements.
Grace was wondering how long he would remain there, and was determined
that she would approach no nearer to him, when an unlooked-for incident
frustrated her intentions.

Like many girls who have been reared in towns, Grace had an
unconquerable dread of horned animals. To pass even the mildest of cows
required of her an exercise of courage and self-mastery worthy of an
act of heroism. It may be imagined, therefore, what her terror was when
a shout roused her to the consciousness that a whole herd of the rough
moorland cattle were rushing down a slope on her right, and apparently
making straight for her.

Grace gave a cry, and, turning, dashed in amongst the bracken and
heather, scrambling over rocks and bushes with some wild idea of
climbing straight up to the top of the tor, in spite of the bare,
perpendicular sides which the rocks here presented to her. But in a
minute, she stumbled and fell upon her face in the heather. With that,
she gave herself up for lost, and lay expecting at each moment to feel
the horrid hoofs trampling on her. But no such experience ensuing, she
soon sprang up and looked around her, and, lo! there was no cause for
alarm at all.

The herd was at a distance now, near the gate of a field, attended by
a boy on a pony, who had driven them down with such precipitance from
their pasture. It was clear that they had had no hostile intentions
with regard to her, and as Grace began to recover from her fright, she
felt much ashamed of herself.

She glanced at the top of the rocks. No one was visible there. The next
minute, she perceived that Arthur Seaton had found some rapid mode of
descending, and was advancing towards her through the heather.

Grace felt dreadfully confused and shame-faced as she met his glance,
which expressed the kindest solicitude.

"I am sorry you have had such a fright," he said. "It was very stupid
of that boy to drive those creatures down on you like that. He should
have known better."

"He could not see me—it was my fault," murmured Grace. "I was the
stupid one to be so easily frightened."

"Not at all. Most ladies would be frightened. It is only natural when
one is not used to country life. I am afraid you feel quite shaken."

"No, thank you; I shall be all right in a moment," said Grace, seating
herself on a rock, and pushing back her hat that the breeze might cool
her brow.

The next minute, she began to laugh.

"I can't help thinking," she said, "how absurd it must have looked to
you to see me running away from nothing. Did you see me fall?"

"I did," he said gravely, but with an amused twinkle in his eyes; "and
when you did not rise, I thought you had struck your head against a
rock, and were lying stunned. You did not hurt yourself in falling, I
trust."

"Not in the least. I was simply too terrified to rise. I thought the
creatures were upon me. Oh, how my brother will laugh at me when I tell
him!"

"Your brother? Mr. Erith, I presume? I cannot be mistaken in thinking
you Miss Erith."

"Nor I in taking you for Mr. Arthur Seaton?"

"No. We are indebted to the cattle for an informal introduction. Will
you not come to the top, Miss Erith? There is a fine breeze, and the
hills are looking lovely."

She willingly agreed, and he led the way by the easiest path.

[Illustration: "IS YOUR BROTHER REALLY BETTER NOW, MISS ERITH?"]

"This is beautiful!" Grace exclaimed, as they gained the summit, and
she stood looking round on the wide prospect. "What a long way one can
see! Each time I come up here, it seems to me more lovely than before."

"Then you are pleased with Trematon?"

"Indeed I am. It is the loveliest little place I have ever seen."

He looked gratified.

"By-the-bye," continued Grace, "I believe I owe my acquaintance with
Trematon to you. Mr. Seaton says you recommended me to him, but I am
puzzled to think how you knew that I could play. I cannot remember that
I ever met you at Cambridge."

Her companion displayed some embarrassment.

"Oh, as to that," he said, hurriedly, "I heard about you, and about
your brother's illness, you know, from a man at Cambridge."

"He must have known us very well," said Grace, innocently. "It was one
of Stanley's friends, I suppose?"

"Oh, he knew you well, of course," returned Arthur Seaton, still more
hurriedly. "Is your brother really better now, Miss Erith? Does the air
of Trematon suit him?"

"Oh, yes; it is marvellous what it has done for him. He was good for
very little when he came, but now he can walk miles, his headaches are
gone, and his appetite is something quite alarming. I never saw anyone
change so much in such a short time."

"I am very glad to hear that," he said, heartily. "I believe in the
virtues of Trematon air." He was about to add that she looked better
than when he last saw her, but happily he recollected himself in time.
It was a satisfaction to him to see that the careworn look was gone
from her face, and it was bright and glad, as a girl's should be,
whilst the sun had given it a most becoming bloom.

"I am looking forward to making your brother's acquaintance," said
Arthur Seaton. "My uncle has been speaking most highly of him. He has
quite won my uncle's heart, I can assure you."

"Mr. Seaton has been most kind to us," said Grace, earnestly; "he has
treated us as friends, not strangers. Indeed, my brother and I have
great cause to be grateful to you for bringing us here. If you knew
all, you understand how sincerely I say this."

Arthur coloured, under the consciousness that he knew far more than she
supposed.

"You are quite mistaken," he said, hastily. "The obligation is all on
our side; we should be grateful to you for coming to this out of the
world place. My uncle has been telling me how beautifully you play, and
how well the singing went on Sunday."

"I am very glad if he was pleased," said Grace. "But now I must be
getting home. I came up to the village to do some shopping, but, as
you are probably aware, it is not possible to do much in that way at
Trematon. It is rather startling to find yourself at a place where good
coffee cannot be purchased, nor fruit had for love or money, as Miss
Nosworthy assures me. Still, these are minor inconveniences, and can be
got over."

"I am glad you think so. Miss Nosworthy is not very enterprising, I
am afraid. She is very cautious in stocktaking. Five pounds would buy
everything she has in her shop, and rather more. But, Miss Erith, I
intend to ride to Ashburton this afternoon, so I hope you will let me
bring you from there whatever you require. There is a good grocer's
shop in the town."

"You are very kind, but indeed I could not think of it," said Grace,
earnestly. "I can order the coffee by post; there is no need to trouble
you."

"It would be no trouble—a pleasure," he urged. "Do let me be of service
to you in this trifling way."

But Grace was resolute in declining. She could not bear to think of his
riding back from Ashburton laden with parcels for her.

They ascended the hill, and Grace called at the shop for her purchases,
which Arthur insisted on carrying for her to the entrance of Torhill.
He excused himself from entering at that hour, but said he hoped to see
her brother on the following day.


Grace soon told her brother all about her meeting with Arthur Seaton.

"And you liked him?" he said.

"Yes," was her response; "he is really almost as nice in his way as his
uncle."

"Not stuck up?"

"Oh, no; he offered to bring me some coffee from Ashburton."

"Then you should have let him do so; that was wretched stuff we had
this morning."

"I did not like he should have the trouble," said Grace; "and we can
get it almost as soon by post."

"Did he tell you how he came to know about us?"

"No—not exactly. He said it was from a friend of yours, but he did not
mention the name."


That evening, after twilight had fallen on the outer world, and Mrs.
Sparks had brought into the little sitting-room the lamp which every
night, to Grace's distress, attracted from the darkness outside, and
lured to their destruction many moths, the sound of horse's hoofs was
heard coming down the rough lane.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Sparks entered with an elated air, and placed
on the table a broad, shallow basket, in which some magnificent pears,
and several clusters of equally fine grapes, were tastefully arranged
amid vine leaves.

"Mr. Arthur's compliments, miss," she said, "and he's taken the liberty
of bringing you a little fruit."

Grace and Stanley looked at each other in astonishment. She seemed at a
loss what to say.

"It is very good of Mr. Seaton, I am sure," said Erith, warmly. "What
splendid fruit! Is he at the door?"

"Oh, no, sir; he rode away at once."

"Then we must try to thank him to-morrow. It is really too kind of him."

"Just like Mr. Arthur, sir. He's for ever doin' kind things."

"So it seems. Well, Grace," turning to his sister as Mrs. Sparks closed
the door, "you told me Miss Nosworthy said that fruit was not to be had
here for love or money, but it appears you can get it for love."

Grace coloured hotly, and begged him not to be so absurd.



CHAPTER IV.

AN UNWARRANTABLE LIBERTY.

GRACE and her brother had not long finished breakfast the next morning,
when Arthur Seaton appeared.

"I have come to propose a picnic," he said, when greetings had been
exchanged. "Are you both equal to a good walk?"

"There is nothing I should like better," said Stanley, with all the
pride of restored health, "and I think I can speak for Grace too. But
before we say more, let us thank you for your kind present of last
evening."

"Yes, indeed," said Grace, "though I really think we ought to scold
you. You should not have done it. I felt ashamed of having mentioned
our want."

"I hope not. I am afraid it was rather an impertinence on my part, but
you will find that everyone indulges me at Trematon. I am a spoilt
child, and always get my own way."

"Say, rather, a good fairy, one of your Dartmoor pixies, showering on
needy mortals the gifts they crave," said Erith.

"No, no; I am nothing so good as that," said Arthur, laughing. "But
now, how soon can you be ready to start? The air is so fresh; it is
just the morning for a walk, and I propose to take you across country
to the top of Rocksbro' Cleave, and then by moor and fell and sweet
woodland paths to our own falls, the grand show of this neighbourhood,
which I was surprised to learn from Miss Erith yesterday you had not
yet visited."

"You think it a serious omission," said Erith. "The truth is, the man
who drove us here spoke so slightingly of the falls, that we have felt
in no hurry to visit them."

"Fancy suffering yourselves to be misled by the natural contempt of a
native for the scenes amidst which he has been reared!" said Arthur
Seaton. "But wait till you have seen the falls. If you approve of
my programme, we shall reach them about mid-day, and Mrs. Brown, my
uncle's housekeeper, has promised to send something in the way of
luncheon to await us there."

"How good of you to arrange it all so thoroughly," said Grace. "It will
be delightful! I love to spend the whole day out of doors."

"What is the time, Grace?" asked Stanley. "My watch has run down."

"I will ask Mrs. Sparks," she replied, rising hastily.

But Arthur quickly supplied the information.

"Did you not bring your watch with you, Grace?" asked her brother,
remembering that he had not seen her wear it since they had been at
Trematon.

"No, I did not," she answered with heightened colour. "I will be ready
in five minutes, Mr. Seaton—"

And she hurried from the room, as though to escape further questions.

Arthur Seaton understood it all. Grace had concealed from her brother
the fact that she had sacrificed her watch, the one which had been
their father's, in order to increase their dwindling funds. And that
very watch, so familiar to them both, was now locked within a drawer of
his at the Rectory. How he might venture to return it to Miss Erith was
a problem on which Arthur was constantly exercising his ingenuity, but
as yet without any satisfactory result.

In a few minutes, they were on their way. It was indeed a lovely walk
Arthur led them: through narrow lanes with ferny, flowery banks,
through deep, steep woods, they descended to a spot where the river
which came down from the moors was completely hidden under huge mossy
boulders, blocking its bed for many yards. The water, invisible, could
be heard flowing underneath. Crossing by this romantic natural bridge,
they began the ascent of the opposite slope of the deep valley.

The sun shone warmly on them as they climbed upwards, but the
magnificent view which they obtained from the top of the ridge more
than repaid them for the fatigue of the climb. The enormous rocks which
crowned the summit of the Cleave, and were piled together with the
wildest irregularity, formed a marvel of nature which astonished the
Eriths. They lingered there for some time, no one feeling inclined to
move away.

Far below them was the river, flashing into sight here and there amid
the trees; on the other side rose the wooded slopes they had descended.
And above these, the broad sweep of the moor showed lovely gradations
of brown and green and the purple of heather as the sunshine glorified
it, or the passing clouds cast their shadows on its surface. To the
right, the tall grey tower of Trematon Church and the ragged mass of
rocks behind, dwarfed by distance, were discernible. Away to the left
stretched mile after mile of open country, meeting at last a strip of
vivid blue—the distant sea.

Grace did not rest long. She must explore the romantic spot, and from
crag to crag she climbed with Arthur's aid, enjoying the excitement of
every difficulty. The glorious day, the beautiful scenery, filled her
with ecstacy. The mere sense of living in such a beautiful world was
rapturous. Stanley wondered at her gaiety. He had never seen her in
such spirits before. But her joyous mood was contagious. It was a merry
party that explored Rocksbro' Cleave.

But at last, the thought that luncheon awaited them far down in the
green dell inclined them to turn their steps thither. They descended on
the other side of the Cleave, crossed the river at a point considerably
lower down than their former crossing-stones, and then followed a
winding path through the woods, which brought them to the falls.

The Eriths had to acknowledge that these were indeed deserving of
a visit. True, the fall of water was slight in comparison with the
grand mass of boulders over which it fell. But these great granite
masses, worn smooth and greened by the water, round and over and under
which the stream made its way as best it could, were in themselves a
beautiful sight; while the boughs meeting overhead, the rich depth of
foliage overshadowing the stream, made the glen a delightfully cool
retreat in the hot noontide.

Beautiful as the scene was, however, it was a sad, prosaic fact, that
the appearance of the boy with the luncheon basket was hailed as a
welcome addition to the view.

Mrs. Brown had provided in generous fashion. And Arthur, declining
Grace's assistance, and displaying the skill of a master in arranging
an "al fresco" repast, had soon a most appetising meal spread on a
square, smooth block covered with snowy damask. How well they did
justice to it, we need not tell.

When they had finished, Stanley, who had brought his sketch-book, began
to attempt a little rough sketch of the scene, and the others wandered
away, following the course of the stream as they clambered over the
moss-grown rocks and searched for ferns.

"I am glad you have enjoyed the day," Arthur said to Grace, when, about
sunset, they returned to Trematon.

"Oh, I have!" she said impulsively. "It has been one of the happiest
days of my life."

He looked well pleased.

"Mind," said Grace, as they shook hands, "you are not to forget your
promise."

"My promise?"

"You cannot have forgotten it already! You said that you would tell me
ere I left Trematon the name of the friend from whom you heard of my
playing."

"Did I promise that?" he asked, with an air of perplexity.

"You did, indeed! Mind, I depend upon your telling me."

"Very well, I will tell you, but not now!"

"Before I leave Trematon?"

"Very well—I shall not forget."

He moved away. Stanley helped his sister over the last stile, and they
went down the field to Torhill.


After this, there were few days of which Arthur Seaton did not spend
some hours with the Eriths. Rapidly the weeks sped by.

The brother and sister became aware that their holiday must soon end,
and anxious thoughts for the future began to shadow their minds.

Grace was in correspondence with a school-mistress in the north, who
wanted a music governess. A cousin, the incumbent of a city church,
wrote to Stanley, offering to assist him in his preparation for holy
orders if he would come and work in his parish.

So the future had to be seriously considered. But though they
constantly discussed them together, the Eriths instinctively avoided
any reference to their plans when in the company of Mr. Seaton or his
nephew.

The last Sunday was approaching. The new school-mistress, professing
to be musical, was expected to arrive in the following week, and there
would be no further need for Grace's services.


On Saturday afternoon, she went as usual to the church to practise the
tunes for the morrow's services. She found the organ open, and, to her
surprise, a small, square packet lay upon the keyboard addressed to
her. The words, "To be opened when alone," met her eye.

Grace looked around her. The church was empty. Through the open door
she could see a boy outside, busy shearing the grass about the graves.
No one else was in sight. It was impossible to tell how the packet had
come there.

She slipped it in her pocket and tried to give her attention to her
music. But her curiosity to examine the mysterious thing increased
every minute she delayed doing so.

She contented herself with a short practice, and hurried homewards.
The last field gained, she halted in a shady, secluded nook beneath
a hedge, and opened the little parcel. Within the paper was a small,
square box, and in the box, carefully covered with wadding, she found,
to her amazement, the watch and necklet she had sold six weeks ago. A
slip of paper was folded beneath, and she read the words—

     "DEAR MISS ERITH,—It was from Mr. Shears that I learned of your talent
  for music. Will you forgive me that I was in his shop that afternoon,
  and, unseen by you, heard all that passed? And may I venture, without
  being deemed the most presuming, meddlesome fellow in the world,
  to return you the property with which you parted? Please do not be
  angry with me for doing this. I cannot rest till I am assured of your
  forgiveness.

                   "Your friend,

                             "ARTHUR SEATON."

Grace dropped the little note as if it had stung her. Her face grew
crimson. She WAS angry. She was both hurt and disappointed. She hardly
knew what she had expected, but certainly no such explanation as this
of the way in which she had been brought under Arthur Seaton's notice.
And though she had been sorry to part with her valuables, it was bitter
to have them thrust back on her thus.

Arthur had been mistaken if he deemed that Grace Erith was not
sensitive on the score of her poverty. To a good, simple-hearted old
man like Mr. Shears, she could freely reveal her straitened means
without any sense of shame, but it was quite another thing to know that
her petty, pitiful difficulties had been exposed to the knowledge of
Mr. Arthur Seaton. Not that she judged him likely to scoff at them. She
was sure of his kindness of heart. But none the less, the fact that he
had overheard all that passed between her and the watchmaker annoyed
her excessively.

"So he knew we could not afford to pay for lodgings, and it was out of
charity he persuaded his uncle to ask me here. It was a mere pretence
about my playing the organ. And I do call it a piece of presumption, of
impertinence, a most unwarrantable liberty on his part, to send me back
these things. But I will not have them. He shall know what I think. It
is the insolence of wealth. Because we are poor, he imagines we have no
pride. But I will teach him otherwise. It is not as if he were an old
friend."

She paused. She remembered that Arthur had signed himself, "Your
friend"; and was he not a friend? Had he not shown himself a friend to
her and to her brother during the past few weeks? And words and looks
and signs, noted only by herself, came to Grace's recollection, which
had made her heart beat fast with a delightful consciousness that she
had a special interest for Arthur Seaton.

"But I wish he had not done this," she thought, and then a few hot,
passionate tears fell. A mischievous smile succeeded them as she
remembered that he had written, "I cannot rest till I am assured of
your forgiveness."

"I am not going to forgive you," she murmured.

And she rose, put the box in her pocket, and went on with her mind in a
tumult.

"You have had a short practice, surely," said her brother, who sat
sketching in the garden as she came in.

"The tunes were well known to me—there was no need to practise them,"
she replied.

"Did you see anything of Mr. Seaton or Arthur?"

"No."

"He is off shooting, I suppose. I have been hearing shots from the
moor."

"Have you?"

"Is anything the matter, Grace? You seem put out."

"What can make you think that, Stanley?"

"I don't know. I fancy you seem rather glum."

"Perhaps I am. I believe I am getting tired of Trematon," said Grace,
with a sigh. "I am not sorry that we leave next week."

"Well, that is something quite new," said her brother, looking at her
in surprise. "Only yesterday, you were bemoaning the circumstance."

[Illustration]



CHAPTER V.

FORGIVEN.

NO sooner had Arthur Seaton left his little packet where Grace would
be sure to find it, than dreadful misgivings seized him. He climbed
the rocks at the back of the church and waited there, restless and
unhappy, till he saw Grace hurrying away through the fields. Then he
was sure that he had been too hasty. He had made a great mistake. She
was offended with him. She would never forgive him. He had committed a
great impertinence. And his conduct now presented itself to him in the
darkest aspects.

Far from enjoying himself on the moor, as Stanley imagined, Arthur
wandered about till dusk fell, in a very unhappy frame of mind. He
dared not present himself at Torhill, but he kept moving about in its
vicinity. If only he could meet her! But of course he did not.


On the following day, it seemed as if his worst fears were realised.
Grace had passed a restless night. The thought of the watch and necklet
had haunted her like a nightmare. As she dressed, she lashed her mind
into fresh indignation with him.

Arthur had a good tenor voice, and it pleased him to sit in the choir.
On most Sundays, he had busied himself in finding the places for Grace
ere the service began. But to-day, she entered with such a dignified,
unapproachable air, that he felt constrained to keep his distance.
After church, he got on no better. She spoke to him, indeed, but her
manner was absolutely stern. She meant him to understand that she was
offended, and he understood it but too well. He was miserable as he
went back to the rectory, and could not find harsh enough terms in
which to reproach himself for his folly.

Nor was Grace, although she deported herself with such dignity, much
happier. Her pride was satisfied, but her heart was not at ease. And
she was at a loss as to what she should do next. Now she resolved
that she would send the things back to him with a few cold, cutting
lines. Then she remembered all his kindness, and accused herself of
ingratitude. She did not want to hurt his feelings; she did not want to
behave ungratefully, but she did wish him to know that he had done an
unwarrantable thing. And then, soft relentings would move her, and she
would remember how good and kind he was, and how it was his delight to
do everything in his power to make others happy.

During the summer, there was an evening service in Trematon church,
but in September, there being no means of lighting the church, this
had to be given up, and the second service began at three o'clock. At
its close, Grace managed to slip away without exchanging a word with
Arthur. She thought she had made up her mind to write to him that
evening and inform him that she could not accept the watch and necklet
as his gifts.

Grace waited for her brother at the field gate. He was speaking to the
Seatons.

"Why were you in such a hurry, Grace?" he said, as he joined her. "Mr.
Seaton was asking what had become of you."

"Have you forgotten that I ordered tea early, that we might walk to
Widdecombe this evening?" she said.

"Arthur says he is almost sure they have discontinued the evening
services there."

"Does he? Well, almost is not quite sure; and at least we shall have a
lovely walk."


It was still bright daylight when they set out. The way lay across
a high, open moor, where the breeze blew keen, and then down by a
charming wooded lane into a fair green valley, whence rose the lofty
granite tower of a fine old church, far larger than the size of the
little hamlet seemed to warrant. The services of the church were over
for the day; they found the door closed, and, after lingering for a
while in the churchyard, admiring its beautiful situation, they turned
back again.

Stanley thought his sister unusually quiet this evening. Once he asked
her if she were tired, but she scouted the idea of fatigue. The road
was up-hill nearly all the way to the moor. The sun had disappeared
below the hills, and soon it grew dark in the lanes. But they came out
into light again at the top of the hill, and the first thing Grace saw
was a dark figure leaning over the gate which barred the way. She knew,
ere he spoke, that it was Arthur Seaton.

"Good evening," he said, lifting his cap; "you have had your walk, I
see, but no service. I came up here with uncle; he has gone into that
cottage to visit a sick man. Ah! Here he comes!"

And the rector was seen approaching.

To Stanley's ear Arthur spoke as usual, but Grace detected a nervous
constraint in his manner, which told her he was not at ease. She
fancied he dared not address her directly, and her spirits rose. Such a
power is pride, even in sweet-looking young girls.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss Erith," said the rector, shaking hands
with her warmly. "I missed you this morning. Since you talk of leaving
us so soon, you must let us see as much as possible of you whilst you
remain, though I trust this is not your last visit to Trematon. I hope
you will come here very often in the future."

"You are very kind; indeed, I hope I may," replied Grace.

To her vexation, her voice faltered as she spoke. She hoped no one had
observed it. She walked on by the side of the rector, determined that
he should be her companion all the way back. But it so happened that
the rector wished to have a confidential talk with her brother; Stanley
was equally desirous of a quiet talk with him, whilst Arthur was
determined "to have it out" with Grace. Three wills being thus opposed
to hers, it was little wonder that her purpose was frustrated, and she
presently found Arthur Seaton by her side, and saw, to her vexation,
that the other two, absorbed in their conversation, were striding on
ahead.

Her companion showed no desire to overtake them. For some minutes he
walked by her side in a silence which Grace felt unable to break.

At last, he said, "So you cannot forgive me. You look upon me as a mean
spy and busybody. You feel insulted by my daring to return those things
to you."

"No, no, not insulted," faltered Grace. "I know you meant to be
kind—but I wish you had not done it."

"Of course, I meant to be kind—people always mean to be kind when they
do insufferable things. What a blundering idiot I have been."

"Don't speak so," said Grace, relenting. "You make too much of it,
indeed. I ought to thank you."

"Why should you? Thank me for wounding your pride; for giving myself
a pleasure to which I had no right. No, indeed. Of course you cannot
forgive me."

Grace was silent, but it was not because she could not forgive him. In
truth, her annoyance had already melted away.

"You cannot forgive me," repeated Arthur. "I have no right to expect
it. I might have known that you cannot look on me as such a friend.
If my uncle had done so, it would be different. My uncle takes the
warmest interest in you and your brother. Shall I tell you what they
are talking about now? Uncle wants to induce Mr. Erith to return to
Trematon before long. He would like his help in the parish. I know that
already he regards your brother as the future rector of Trematon."

"What can you mean?"

"Simply that the living of Trematon belongs to my uncle. He has long
known that I have no inclination to enter the Church, and that being
so, I believe he sees in your brother a man after his own heart, whom
he would like to succeed him in the care of the parish."

"But he knows so little of Stanley."

"He knows him to be a good, true man, a Christian, and a gentleman. And
there is a reason why my uncle feels drawn to you both. Do you know it?"

"I think so," faltered Grace, her heart full. "It is because he knew
our mother that Mr. Seaton is so very, very kind to us."

"Because he knew her—because, I believe, he loved her," said Arthur, in
a very low tone. "Love explains everything, does it not?"

Grace could not speak. She walked on in silence. The yellow glow of
sunset still lingered in the sky. A lofty hill on the right shone with
the reflected glory; a tiny pink cloud floated above it; here and there
stars began to appear, gleaming like diamonds on the breast of night.
The hills, the fields, the steel-blue distance showing beneath the
strip of pale, clear sky, all wore the indescribable aspect of peace
which marks the close of a lovely summer day. But Grace was scarce
conscious of the calm beauty of the scene. She saw only that the others
had passed out of sight, and felt nervously anxious to overtake them.

Arthur had something to say first, however.

"I wonder," he began, his tones a little unsteady—"I wonder if love
might be held to justify what I have done? Dare I ask you to forgive
me on that plea? Perhaps you do not believe in love at first sight. I
used to laugh at the idea; but now—now I know that I loved you that day
when I saw you in Shears' shop. I loved you then, I have loved you ever
since, and I shall always love you. Oh, do speak? Do say if you can
forgive me?"

It was very hard for Grace to speak.

"Don't ask it," she said at last. "It is for you to forgive me. I have
behaved very badly."

"Indeed you have not. But do you forgive me?"

"Yes, yes."

"Is it because you love me or because I love you?" he asked, his voice
full of gladness now.

"For both reasons, I believe," she whispered.

"How pleased my uncle will be," said Arthur, some minutes later.



                            THE END.






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