‘Oh,’ said Bella, ‘I don’t count. I am only admitted as a humble companion. Mr. Harefield thinks no more of me than of one of the servants.’ Tea was over by this time, and the family had retired to the library, which was Mr. Dulcimer’s favourite evening room. There he had his pet chair, his reading table and lamp, and could take up a book, or lay it down as he pleased. Even the backs of his books were dear to him. In his idler moments he would lean back in his chair and gaze at them dreamily, in a rapture of content. To him those bindings of various hues, some sober, some gorgeous, were as familiar faces. There was Burton yonder, in calf antique, the Oxford edition--there Southey’s ‘Doctor,’ in crimson morocco--there the old dramatists in brown and gold. Anon came a solid block of histories, from Herodotus to Guizot. Mrs. Dulcimer established herself at her work table, with Bella by her side. The curate seated himself by his Vicar and began to talk of the parish. In her heart Bella hated that parish talk--the rheumatic old women--the sick children--men who were out of work or down with fever--the sufferers--the sinners--the cases of all kinds that needed help. ‘If I were a man I would rather be a chimneysweep than a clergyman,’ she thought. ‘One might get to like sooty chimneys, in time; but I am sure I could never get to like poor people.’ And yet at that moment Bella was contemplating a step which would bring her into very close contact with the poor of Little Yafford. It was a quiet humdrum evening, enlivened only by Mrs. Dulcimer’s small talk about her neighbours or her needlework, and the indistinct murmurs of those two men on the other side of the wide old hearth. But to Bella it was infinitely more agreeable than the noisy evenings at home--the father’s grumblings and growlings--the squabblings and snappings of boys and girls--the house-mother’s moaning about the maid-of-all-work’s misdoings. It was pleasant to sit in this pretty room, lined with many-coloured volumes, all kept with an exquisite neatness, which was a feature in Mr. Dulcimer’s love of books. The glow of the fire, the subdued radiance of the lamps, the rich dark red of the curtains, made a warm brightness unknown in those bare rooms at home. And every now and then Bella’s blue eyes shot a glance at the curate’s earnest face--or, when he was most occupied, dwelt upon it admiringly for a few moments. ‘Ten o’clock,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, as the skeleton clock on the chimney-piece chimed the hour. ‘I wouldn’t make your poor mother uneasy for the world, Bella dear--Cyril, I know you’ll be kind enough to see Bella safe home. You pass her door, you know.’ Mr. Culverhouse knew it perfectly. ‘I shall be very happy,’ he said kindly. He looked with favour on Bella--as a harmless little thing, and Beatrix’s friend.