for ever a sacred place in so pure a mind—at times lie felt that these were delights far superior to the possession of the most robust health and hopes of the longest life. To be sure there was a tinge of refined selfishness in this; but that was a part of his nature. And what purest affection is without it?
But in these hopes he had deceived himself. Before his bliss had lasted for a year it seemed about to be crowned by the birth of a child. The child—a girl—was indeed born, but at the expense of its mother’s life.
Edward Norman’s grief was sacred even to the impertinence of village gossip. When, a few weeks after, a beer-muddled rustic happened to stray late at night in the neighbourhood of the churchyard, and next morning spread the report among his fellow-yokels that he had seen a ghost by the new grave stretching up its arms in the moonlight, his story did not attract much comment, for the hearts of the humblest, which, after all, are human, whispered that the agony of a husband over a young wife’s tomb was not a subject for trivial chatter.
But when the period of more or less lachrymose sympathy had waned with the rector’s first year of bereavement, other thoughts began once more to spring in the young female mind of Bloomford. If Mr. Norman had been interesting before, how
