Luke Cleverdon left the house. He could no longer endure to remain in it. He saw the flash in Urith's eye as she put her hand in that of Anthony in answer to his appeal. He had seen sufficient to shake and wring his heart with inexpressible pain. He walked hastily down the hill, but stopped at the ruined chapel, and entered there. The old broken altar lay there, one of its supports fallen. Luke seated himself on a block of granite, and rested his arm against the altar-slab, and laid his head on his arm. That he had long loved Urith he knew but too well for his peace of mind, but never before had his passion for her so flamed up as at that moment when she took his cousin's hand. What had occurred on the previous day on the moor was repeated again; a smouldering fire had suddenly caught a great tuft or bush, almost a tree, of gorse, and had mounted in a pillar of flame.

Was Anthony in all things to be preferred to him? In the house at Hall, Luke had submitted without demur to be set aside on all occasions, for Anthony was the son, and Luke but the nephew, of the old man; Hall would one day be the inheritance of Anthony, and in Hall the son of old Anthony's brother had no portion. But now that he had left his uncle's house, now that he was independent, was Anthony still to stand in his way, to lay his hand on and claim the one flower that Luke loved, but which he dared not put forth his hand to pluck?

Timid and humble-minded as Luke was, he had never considered that he could win the affections of any girl, leastways of one such as Urith. But it was a delight to him to see her, to watch the unfolding of her mind, and character, and beauty, to know that she was a wild moor-flower, regarded by no one else but himself, sought by none, or, if sought, rejecting such seekers with disdain. He was so simple and single in his aims, that it would have well contented him to merely admire and humbly love Urith, never revealing the state of his heart, asking of her nothing but friendship and regard. But—when, all at once, he saw another stand beside her, take her hand, and seize on her heart with bold temerity, and by his boldness win it—that was too much for Luke to endure without infinite pain, and a battle with himself. If he had formed any ideal picture of the future, it was the harmless one of himself as the friend, the gentle, unassuming, unasserting friend of Urith, suffered by her, after some little resistance, to divert her headlong character, brighten the gloomy depths of her strange mind. He knew how greatly she needed an adviser and guide, and his highest ambition was so to help her that she might become a noble and generous woman. That he had not formed this hope out of pure pastoral zeal he knew, for he who taught others to search their own consciences, not lightly, and after the manner of dissemblers with God, had explored his own heart, and measured all its forces; but till this moment he had never realized that there was a selfishness and jealousy in his love, a selfishness which would have kept back Urith from knowing and loving anyone, and a jealousy intense and bitter against the man who obtained that place in Urith's heart to which he himself laid no claim, but which he hoped would be forever empty.

He tried to pray, but was unable to do more than move his lips and form words. Prayers did not appease the ardor, lessen the anguish within. As he looked up at the moor he saw now that it was still smoking. The storm of rain in the night had not quenched the fires, nor could the dews of Divine consolation put out that which blazed within his breast.

He had never envied Anthony till now. When he had been at school, he had been but scantily furnished with pocket-money. There had been many little things he would have liked to buy, but could not, having so small a sum at his disposal; on the other hand, Anthony could at all times command his father's purse, had spent money as he liked, had wasted it wantonly, but Luke had accepted the difference with which they had been treated without resentment; yet, now that Anthony had stepped in between him and Urith, something very much like hatred formed like gall in his heart.

He tried to think that he was angry with his cousin for having given Mistress Malvine pain, with having been guilty of sacrilege, but he was too truthful in his dealings with himself to admit that these were the springs of the bitterness within.

Suddenly he looked up with a start, and saw Bessie before him, observing him with sympathetic distress. His pale forehead was covered with sweat-drops, and his long, thin hands were trembling. They had been clasped, the one on the other, on the altar-stone, and Luke's brow had rested on them, his face downward; thus he had not seen Bessie when she approached.

"What is it, Luke?" she said, in kindly tones, full of commiseration. "Are you ill, dear cousin?"

He looked at her somewhat vacantly for a moment, gathering his senses together. As in bodily pain, after a paroxysm, the mind remains distraught for a moment, and is unable to throw itself outward, so it is with mental pain to an even greater degree. As Bessie spoke, Luke seemed to be brought, or to bring himself, by an effort, out of a far-off world into that in which Bessie stood surrounded by the old chapel walls, hung with hartstongue leaves, still green, untouched by winter frost.

"What are you suffering from?" she asked, and seated herself at his side.

"It is nothing, cousin," he answered, and shook his head to shake away the thoughts that had held him.

"It is indeed something," she said, gently; "I know it is; I see it in your white and streaming face." She took his hand in hers. "I know it from your cold hand. Luke, you have had no one but me to talk to of your troubles in boyhood, and I had none but you to tell of my little girlish vexations. Shall we be the same now, and confide in each other?"

O, false Bessie! knowing she was false, as she said this. The keen eye of her Aunt Magdalen had seen what Bessie supposed was hidden from every one, that she loved her cousin Luke. But to Luke would that secret assuredly never be entrusted. It was to be a one-sided confidence.

"Are you ill? Are you in bodily pain?" she asked.

He shook his head—not now to shake away thought, but in negative. He passed his disengaged hand and sleeve over his brow, and was at once composed. "I am sorry you saw me like this, Bessie. I thought no one would come in here."

"I have come to see Urith, after last night. I promised her I would come some time, and I thought that I would ask if she were quite well, for the day was to her long and trying."

"Do not go on there now," said Luke gently, releasing his hand. "There has something happened. You have not heard, but it will be noised everywhere shortly, and the shock has been too much for Mistress Malvine; she has fallen into a fit."

"Then I had better go on, cousin; I may be of help to Urith."

"You have not heard——" Then he told her of what Anthony had done the preceding night. Bessie was greatly disturbed; the act was so profane, and so inconsiderate. The inconsiderateness might, indeed, partially excuse the act, but hardly redeem it from sacrilege, and was certain to arouse general and deep indignation; the inconsiderateness showed an unbalanced mind, wanting in ordinary regard for the feelings of others.

"And yet," said Elizabeth, "this is not what has made you so unhappy. You have not told me all."

Luke remained silent, looking before him. "Bessie," said he, "has it never been observed by you that Anthony had an affection for Urith?"

"Never," answered Elizabeth; "I do not see how there could have sprung up such a liking. They hardly ever can have spoken to each other before yesterday, though they may have met; as, for instance, seen each other in church. I never heard Anthony name her."

"He does not tell you what he has in his heart."

"I did not believe that he had any particular regard for any one. He has not been a person to seek the company of young maidens; he has affected to utterly scorn them, and has held himself aloof from their company."

"I think—I am sure that he likes her," said Luke slowly.

Then Bessie turned her face and looked at him steadily.

"Oh, Luke! Luke!" she exclaimed, and there was pain in her tone. "I have read your heart. Now I know all." And now that she had discovered his secret, Luke was glad to be able to pour out his heart into her sympathetic ear, to tell her how that he did love Urith, but also how that he had never dreamed of making her his wife.

"My wife!" said he, with a sad smile; "that is not a name I shall ever be able to give to any woman. It is not one that any woman would care for me to call her by."

Bessie listened as he talked, without a sign in her face of other emotion than pity for him. Not in the slightest did she raise a fold of the veil that concealed her heart, the rather did she wrap it round her the more closely.

After a while Luke rose relieved. He took Bessie's hand in his, and said, "Now, dear cousin, you must make me a promise. When you have any trouble at heart, you will come and tell me." She pressed his hand and raised her eyes timidly to his, but made no other answer.

They walked together down the hill, and then, at the bridge, parted. When they parted, Bessie's eyes filled with tears.

But the heart of Luke was relieved, and he walked homewards encouraged to fight out the battle with himself, and overcome the jealousy with which he began to regard his cousin Anthony.