Next day Anthony's brow was clouded, and his manner had lost its usual cheerfulness. He was angry with himself for having been to Kilworthy. Bessie was right, he acknowledged it now—a slight had been put on his wife by his being invited without her. He ought to have seen this before. He ought to have refused the invitation. Then he remembered that he had been told nothing about a party at the house, so his anger was turned upon Fox, who had entrapped him into a false position.

But this was not all. He was ashamed at himself for having for a moment reconsidered his conduct in taking Urith instead of Julian. In vain did he reason with himself that he had done something heroic in resigning such enormous advantages for the sake of a girl; whether he liked it or not, the odious thought lurked in a corner of his heart and would not be expelled—Was Urith worth the sacrifice?

There was much to humiliate him in his present state. He who had been wont to spend his money freely, had now to reckon his coppers and calculate whether he could afford the small outlay that slight pleasures entailed. And then—these coppers were not his, but his wife's. He was living on her bounty, indebted to her for every glass of ale he drank. Of his own, he had nothing. His confidence that his father's obstinacy would give way, and that he would be taken into favour again, was shaken. He began to fear that so long as his father lived he would remain in disfavour. That, on his father's decease, he would inherit Hall, he did not doubt for a moment. There was no one else to whom the old man could bequeath the estate. Bessie was a girl, and Luke a parson—disqualifications absolute.

Most heartily did he wish that the misunderstanding with his father were at an end. It was a degradation for him—for him, the heir of the Cleverdons—to be sponging on his wife. The situation was intolerable. But how was it to be altered? He could not force his father to reconciliation. His pride forbade his going to him and acting the prodigal son. His heart grew hot and bitter against the old man for his unreasonable and persistent hostility, which had reduced him to a position so pitiable and humiliating.

Then there arose before his mind's eye the beautiful grounds and noble mansion of Kilworthy, the pleasant company there—and Julian. He shook his head impatiently, set his teeth, and stamped on the floor, but he could not rid himself of the thoughts.

"I do not see, 'fore Heaven, why we should not have a clean table-cover," he said at dinner; "nor why every dish should be huddled on to the board at once. I am not a pig, and accustomed to feed as in a stye."

Urith looked at him with surprise, and saw that displeasure was lowering on his brow.

She answered him gently, but he spoke again in the same peevish, fault-finding tones. He complained that the pewter dishes were hacked with knives, and the mugs bent out of shape and unpolished. If they must eat as do servants in a kitchen, let them at least have the utensils in trim order.

Urith sought in vain to dispel the ill-humour that troubled him; this was her first experience of domestic disagreement. The tears came into her eyes from disappointment, and then his ill-humour proved contagious. She caught the infection and ceased to speak. This annoyed him, and he asked her why she said nothing.

"When there are clouds over Lynx Tor there is vapour over Hare Tor as well," she answered. "If you are in gloom I am not like to be in sunshine. What ails you?"

"It is too maddening that my father should remain stubborn," he said. "You cannot expect me to be always gay, with the consciousness that I am an outcast from Hall."

She might have answered sharply, and the lightning would then have flashed from cloud to cloud, had not, at that moment, Luke entered the house.

"Come at last!" was Anthony's ungracious salutation.

"I have not been here often, certainly," said Luke, "for I did not suppose you wanted me; the parson is desired by those in sorrow and tears, not by those in perfect happiness."

"Oh!" said Anthony, "it is not as the parson we want you, but as a cousin and comrade."

Urith asked Luke if he would have a share of the meal just concluded. He shook his head; he had eaten before leaving the rectory. He had taken his meal early, so as to be sure of catching Anthony at home before he went abroad.

As Luke spoke he turned his eyes from his cousin to Urith, and saw by the expression of their faces that some trouble was at their hearts; but he had the tact not to advert to it, and to wait till they of their own accord revealed the cause.

"Have you been to Hall lately? Have you seen my father?" asked Anthony, after a pause, with his eyes on the table.

"I have not been there; your father will not see me. He cannot forgive the hand I had in making you happy."

"Then you have no good news to bring me?"

"None thence. I have talked to Bessie——"

"So have I. I saw her yesterday at Kilworthy, and she scolded me instead of comforting me."

"Comforting you! Why, Anthony, I do not suppose for an instant that she thought you needed comfort."

"Should I not, when my father shuts me out of his house—out of what should be mine—the house that will be mine some day! It is inhuman!"

"I can quite believe that your father's hardness causes you pain, but no advantage is gained by brooding over it. You cannot alter his mood, and must patiently endure till it changes. Instead of altering his for the better, you may deteriorate your own by fretful repining."

Anthony tossed his head.

"You, too, in the fault-finding mood! All the world is in league against me."

"Take my advice," said Luke; "put Hall out of your thoughts and calculations. You may have to wait much longer than you imagined at one time till your father relents; you know that he is tough in his purpose, and firm in his resolution. He will not yield without a struggle with his pride. So—act as if Hall were no more yours than Kilworthy."

Anthony winced, and looked up hastily, his colour darkened, and he began hastily and vehemently to rap at the table.

"Kilworthy!" Why had Luke mentioned that place by name? was he also mocking him, as Fox had yestereven, for throwing away his chance of so splendid a possession.

Luke did not notice that this reference had touched a vibrating string in his cousin's conscience. He went on, "Do not continue to reckon on what may not be yours. It is possible—though I do not say it is likely—that your father may disinherit you. Face the worst, be prepared for the worst, and then, if things turn out better than you anticipated, well!—you unman yourself by living for, reckoning on, dead men's boots; make yourself shoes out of your own hide, and be content that you have the wherewithal to cover your feet."

"You think it possible that my father may never come round—even on his death-bed?"

"God grant he may," answered Luke, gravely. "But he entertains an old and bitter grudge against your wife's father, and this grudge has passed over to, and invests her. God grant His grace that he may come to a better mind, for if he goes out of this life with this grudge on his heart, he cannot look to find mercy when he stands before the throne of his Judge."

Anthony continued drumming on the table with his fingers.

"My recommendation is," continued Luke, "that you rest your thoughts on what you have, not on what you have not. And you have much to be thankful for. You have a wife whom you love dearly, and who loves you no less devotedly. You are your own master, living on your own estate, and in your own manor house. So—live for that, care for that, cultivate your own soil, and your own family happiness, and let the rest go packing."

"My own house! my own land!" exclaimed Anthony. "These are fine words, but they are false. Willsworthy is not mine, it belongs to Urith."

"Anthony!" cried his wife, "what is mine you know is yours—wholly, freely."

"Well," said Luke, with heat, "and if Hall had been yours when you took Urith, it would have been no longer mine or thine, but ours. So it is with Willsworthy. Love is proud to receive and to give, and it never reckons what it gives as enough, and accepts what it receives as wholly its own."

Anthony shrugged his shoulders, then set his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands.

"I reckon it is natural that I should grieve over the alienation from my father."

"You are not grieving over it because it is an alienation from your father, but from Hall, with the comforts and luxuries to which you were accustomed there."

"Do you not see," exclaimed Anthony, impatiently, "that it is I who should support my wife, and not my wife who should find me in bread and butter? Our proper positions are reversed."

"Not at all. Willsworthy has gone to rack and ruin, and if it be brought back to prosperity, it will be through your energy and hard work."

"Hard work!" echoed Anthony. "I have had more of that since I have been here than ever I had before."

"Well, and why not? You are not afraid of work, are you?"

"Afraid! No. But I was not born to be a day labourer."

"You were born, Anthony, the son of a yeoman family which has worked hard to bring itself up into such a condition that now it passes for a family of gentry. Do not forget that, and do not blush for yourself when you use the muck-fork or the spade, or you are unworthy of your stout-hearted ancestors."

Anthony laughed. The cloud was dispelled. This allusion to the family and its origin touched and pleased him. He had often joked over his father's pretensions. He put forth his hand to his cousin, who clasped it warmly.

"All well, old friend, you are right. If I have to build up a new branch of the Cleverdons, it is well. I am content. Fill the tankard to the prosperity of the Cleverdons of Willsworthy—and to the dogs with Hall!"

Anthony put his arm round Urith's waist. The clouds had cleared, and, as they rolled off his brow that of Urith brightened also. Luke rose to depart. He would not suffer his cousin to attend him from the door. He went forth alone; and, when he had passed the gate, he halted, raised his hand, and said, "Peace be to this house!" Yet he said it with doubt in his heart. He had seen a ruffle on the placid water, and that ruffle might forebode a storm.