The master of the Water House stood before the hearth, ready to receive his visitor--a tall, powerfully built man, in a long cloth dressing-gown, like a monk’s habit, which made him look taller than he really was. The hard, stern face would have done for one of Cromwell’s Ironsides; the grizzled black hair worn somewhat long, the large nostrils, iron mouth and jaw, dark deep-set eyes, and heavily lined forehead were full of character; but it was character that was calculated to repel rather than to invite sympathy. ‘You have asked to see me on particular business, Mr. Culverhouse,’ said Christian Harefield, with a wave of his hand which might or might not mean an invitation to be seated. He remained standing himself. ‘If it is any question of church restoration, Mr. Dulcimer ought to know that my cheque-book is at his command. I take no personal interest in these things, but I like to do what is right.’ ‘It is no question of church restoration, Mr. Harefield.’ ‘Some of your poor people burned out, or washed out, or down with fever, perhaps? I hear you are very active in good works. My purse is at your disposal. Pray do not scruple to make use of it. I do so little good myself, that I am glad to practise a little vicarious benevolence.’ He seated himself at a large oak table covered with books and papers, and opened his cheque-book. ‘How much shall it be?’ he asked, in a business-like tone. Cyril was looking at him thoughtfully. There was something noble in that iron-gray head, surely--a grand intelligence at least, if not the highest type of moral good. ‘Pardon me, Mr. Harefield,’ said the curate, ‘you are altogether mistaken in the purpose of my visit. I came to ask no favour for others. I am here as a suppliant for myself alone. I know and love your daughter, and I have her permission to tell you that she loves me, and only waits your approval to accept me as her future husband.’ Christian Harefield started to his feet, and turned upon the suppliant. ‘What, it has come already!’ he cried. ‘I knew that it was inevitable; but I did not think it would come quite so soon. My daughter is not nineteen, I believe, and she is already a prey for the first gentlemanly adventurer who crosses her path----’ ‘Mr. Harefield!’ ‘Mr. Culverhouse, _I_ was married for my money. My daughter shall escape that misery if any power of mine can shield her from it. We will not bandy hard words. You profess to love her--a raw, uncultured girl whom you have known at most six months--I will give you credit for being sincere, if you like--for believing that you do love her--and I can only say that I am sorry your fancy should have taken so inopportune a direction. My daughter shall marry no man who is not so entirely her equal in wealth and position that I can feel very sure he takes her for her own sake.’ ‘I expected something of this kind from you, Mr. Harefield.’