She left him in the hall while she went up-stairs, and then returned and asked him to walk up. And in the sitting-room into which he was shown sat Miss Lane--but not the downcast little creature of Garstone Vicarage days--a little, smiling fairy in cream-colored muslin, with a rose at her throat, and a small hand put out in welcome. After the first greetings, her glance fell on his deep hatband. “My father is dead,” said he. She looked grave and sorry at once, but not so much surprised as if the fact of his illness had been unknown to her. “You had heard of his accident?” “Yes, I saw it in the papers,” she answered, blushing, and not looking at him. He looked at her searchingly. Who could have told her all about it but Harry? “Were they all there when he died?” she asked, softly. “All the family were there--yes. Didn’t you know?” “How could I know, Sir George? I have not kept up correspondence with the Mainwarings. They do not care enough about me.” “But you left others behind you at Garstone who did,” said he, more hurriedly than he generally spoke such speeches, for his heart was beating faster. He had never yet looked on a woman who so completely fulfilled his ideal of a beautiful and graceful lady. A passionate wish sprung up in him that he might be mistaken in spite of all, and that his brother might have no interest for her. He glanced at her hands; they were ringless. He would fain have convinced himself that the very glance of her steadfast brown eyes proved her to be innocent of any evil. Yet these rooms, this dainty dress, did not proclaim the struggling governess out of work. For the first time it flashed across his mind, as he looked at her, that, if only she could convince him that she was as free and as pure as he would fain believe, he, Sir George Braithwaite of Garstone Grange, would be ready to marry the little governess out of employment. She had noticed his compliment only by a short, sharp breath, and asked after the vicar’s family to divert the conversation. “I am sure I shall like daily teaching much better than my life with them,” she went on quickly. “You have some pupils then?” “Not yet. I--there have been difficulties in the way of my getting any before now; but I hope to do so soon,” she said, hurriedly. “And you don’t find this life dull?” said Sir George, his jealousy awake again. “Oh, no!” “I suppose your friends come to see you very often?” “No; I don’t have many visitors.” “Perhaps they don’t know where you are. You know you promised to give me your address; but you never did. You left me to find it out as best I could for myself.” “It--it is very kind of you to come,” said the girl, flushing, “How did you find me out?” she asked, anxiously. “I asked Mrs. Mainwaring for your aunt’s address, and went from Garstone to her house.” “You went all the way to my aunt’s!”