‘But I am going with you all the same,’ said Cyril, with gentle firmness, and he had the audacity to offer Beatrix his arm before Sir Kenrick could seize his opportunity. Naturally Sir Kenrick gave his arm to Miss Scratchell. ‘What will they say at home when I tell them this?’ thought Bella. She liked Cyril best, and admired him as the first among men, but Sir Kenrick’s title made him the more important person in her mind. All the stars were shining out of the dark calm heaven--constellations and variable stars looking down at them from that unutterable remoteness beyond the planet Neptune. The walk was not long, but the way was full of beauty under that starry sky--a road that led downhill into the watery valley which made the chief loveliness of Little Yafford. It was a lonely road, leading away from the town--a road bordered on one side by a narrow wood of Scotch firs, on the other by a stretch of somewhat marshy common, and so down into the valley where the Water House rose, with black old tower, ivy-shrouded, above the winding river. There was an old Roman bridge across the river, and then came the gate of the Water House, under an ancient archway. Cyril walked away with Beatrix’s hand under his arm, the footman following at a respectful distance. Mr. Culverhouse forgot--or ignored--the fact of Miss Scratchell’s residence lying exactly the other way, and left Bella to be disposed of by his cousin. Beatrix also seemed to forget all about her friend. She did not run back to bid Bella good night. They would meet to-morrow, no doubt, and Bella, who was the soul of amiability, would forgive her. They walked on in silence, that thrilling silence which tells of deepest feeling. These are the moments which women remember and look back upon in the gray sober hours of afterlife. It is not some girlish triumph--the glory of ball-room or court--which the faded beauty recalls and meditates upon with that sense of sad sweetness which hangs round the memories of long ago. No; it is such a moment as this, when her hand hung tremulous upon her lover’s arm, and words would not come from lips that were faint with a great joy. ‘Have you thought of what I said yesterday, Beatrix?’ Cyril asked at last, in those grave tones of his which to her ear seemed the most exquisite music. ‘Did not you say it? What should I do but think of it? When do I ever think of anything except you and your words?’ she exclaimed, with a kind of impatience. ‘And you have spoken to your father, or you have made up your mind to let me speak to him?’