"Mrs. Crake—but I'll allow she's had a chapel bringin' up—she's only conformed to church of late—she said las' Sunday her girl Ada passed the remark that 'twould be easy to dance to your pieces." "What a dreadful thing to say!" said Gentian with sparkling eyes. "I'll give you the creeps next Sunday if I can—a proper solemn dirge. Thank you for asking me to tea. I shall love to come." Miss Horatia, was the last one to leave, and then Thorold walked home with Miss Ward and Gentian. "I haven't had time to hear how you like this last venture of yours," he said. Gentian laughed. "Oh, I shan't give myself away. I have only had one day. It is oppressively slow, but when I think of how many people I have pleased by taking the job, I feel I shan't live in vain! Miss Anne is an old dear. I love old ladies. I am so tired—so disgusted—so out of friends with men." "Are we such a bad lot?" asked Thorold quietly. Gentian looked at him with a pretty shake of her head. "I don't know about you. I'm in and out of friends with you so often! Waddy is always singing your praises, so of course I do the opposite. If you took me more seriously, I would like you better. Sir Gilbert is the only man about here who speaks naturally and earnestly to me—" "My dear Gentian, your tongue runs away with you—" Miss Ward's tone was shocked. "Oh Waddy, I never choose my words with Cousin Thorold. And I'm only speaking the truth." They had reached the Cottage. Miss Ward went indoors, but Gentian lingered at the gate with Thorold. "I'm sorry I don't take you seriously," Thorold said; "we'll have some grave talks whenever you like." "Then we'll have one now," said Gentian impetuously; "come to the bottom of the garden and sit on the seat with me, where I watch the sun setting." Thorold followed her without a word. He sat down on one end of the seat, she took the other. She was looking distractingly pretty, in a white embroidered linen gown, and a shady white hat with a wreath of periwinkles round it which matched the colour of her eyes. Now she leant forward, elbow on knees, and her chin in the palm of her hand. "I want to do something with my life," she said with earnest solemnity. "I am doing absolutely nothing now. I have been stuck down in this dear little corner of England, and all of you are drawing fences round me to keep me in. They are getting nearer and nearer, and my space is getting smaller and smaller. Waddy and you and Mrs. Wharnecliffe think I ought to be quite happy in my little cottage, watering the garden, and helping Waddy to housekeep and then driving out an old lady at a snail's pace every day. You say,— "'Now she's protected—now she's safe!'