Bella slipped away, beaming with smiles, to put on her bonnet. ‘That girl contrives to look well in everything she wears,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Isn’t she pretty?’ As this was directly addressed to Cyril, he felt himself compelled to answer. ‘Well, yes,’ he deliberated. ‘I suppose she is the kind of little person usually called pretty. Pink and white prettiness.’ ‘Pink and white!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘you might say as much as that of a wax doll. Bella’s complexion is as delicate as Dresden china.’ ‘Don’t be angry with me, Mrs. Dulcimer, but I must confess I hate Dresden china,’ said Cyril, laughing. ‘But I like Miss Scratchell,’ he added hastily, ‘because she seems good and amiable. She must have a hard life with all those brothers and sisters.’ ‘A hard life,’ echoed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Ah, you don’t know what an angel that girl is in her mother’s house. She does everything--cuts out her sisters dresses even--and with such an eye for fashion.’ ‘I can’t fancy an angel cutting out dresses, or having an eye for fashion.’ ‘For shame, Cyril! You young men can’t appreciate domestic virtues. You would think more of her if I told you that she wanted to go into a convent, or to chop somebody’s head off, like Judith. That girl will make a perfect wife.’ ‘I have no doubt she will. And I dare say you have already decided on the happy man who is to be her husband,’ replied Cyril, innocently. Mrs. Dulcimer actually blushed. Bella came back in her neat little bonnet, and comfortable shepherd’s plaid shawl. Those were days in which women still wore bonnets and shawls. She looked the picture of sweetness and innocence in that cottage bonnet, tied under her pretty little chin, and surrounding her face like a halo. ‘I am so sorry to trouble you,’ she said, as she walked away from the Vicarage, with her hand on Cyril’s arm. ‘It is not the least trouble, but a pleasure to be of use to you.’ ‘You are much too good. But I am going to be really troublesome. I want to make you my father confessor.’ ‘About the husband Mrs. Dulcimer has in view,’ thought Cyril, expecting to be made adviser in a love affair. ‘Indeed,’ he said kindly. ‘I am sure you can have nothing very appalling to confess. And if my advice can be of any use to you it is entirely at your service.’ ‘How kind you are!’ exclaimed Bella. ‘I wonder sometimes that you can find so much kindness for every one--that you can sympathize with so many--that you are never worn out or impatient, or----’ ‘I should be very unworthy of my vocation if I could be so easily wearied,’ said Cyril, stopping this discursive gush of laudation. ‘But I am waiting to hear your confession.’ ‘I hardly know how to begin,’ faltered Bella. ‘But--yes. I must say so. Your sermons have awakened my conscience. I think it must have been cold and dead till you came to us. But you have taught me to consider things more deeply. I see what an empty and useless life I am leading----’