"She told me only this day that she hates refinements and such like.

All that my trouble and money bought for her in that way is thrown away upon her quite.

She'd fain be like Marty South--think o' that! That's the top of her ambition! Perhaps she's right.

Giles, she loved you--under the rind; and, what's more, she loves ye still--worse luck for the poor maid!" If Melbury only had known what fires he was recklessly stirring up he might have held his peace.

Winterborne was silent a long time.