‘A thousand thanks,’ cried Bella; ‘I shall feel so much happier when I know that I have some small share in the work you do so nobly. Here we are at home. Will you come in and see papa?’ She devoutly hoped that he would decline, knowing too well the general untidiness of home at this hour. ‘Not to-night; it is too late. But I will call in a day or two.’ Bertie opened the door, keeping himself wedged behind it, as if it had been opened by a supernatural power. ‘Good night,’ said Bella. ‘Good night,’ said the curate, with a kindness which Bella mistook for affection. ‘Why, Bella, what have you been painting your cheeks with?’ cried Adolphus, when Miss Scratchell entered the family parlour, where the solicitor was sitting by the fire, reading one of the county papers--about the only literature with which he ever recreated his mind--while poor Mrs. Scratchell sighed over a basket of stockings, mostly past mending, or requiring a miracle of ingenuity in the mender. It was a miserable home to come back to, Bella thought; and again that vision of an ideal parsonage arose before her mental eye--a paradise of roses and rosebud chintz, Venetian blinds, and a pony chaise. The fulfilment of that dream seemed nearer to her to-night than when first Mrs. Dulcimer conjured up the delightful picture. ‘He seemed pleased with my offer to visit his tiresome poor people,’ thought Bella, as she brushed her soft auburn locks. ‘It will bring us more together, perhaps; and, if he really cares for me, that will please him.’ CHAPTER XII. ‘OH, THINK’ST THOU WE SHALL EVER MEET AGAIN?’ BELLA’S hopes were realized insomuch that her offer to visit his cottagers certainly did bring her more directly in contact with Mr. Culverhouse than she had ever been yet. From that hour Cyril became friendly and confidential--he had found some one besides the Vicar and Mrs. Dulcimer to whom he could talk about his poor parishioners, their wants, their virtues, and their vices. He found Bella full of sympathy. She took up her new work with ardour. She made friends wherever she went. His people were full of her praises. Perhaps, if Cyril’s heart had been free, he might have obliged Mrs. Dulcimer by falling in love with her latest _protégée_. There was something so nice about Bella Scratchell--a winning softness, a gentle submission to other people, a kittenish sleekness and grace, accompanied with all a petted kitten’s caressing ways. ‘That girl has really a remarkable sweetness of character,’ said Cyril, who, like most young men fresh from the university, fancied he understood mankind. He praised Isabella warmly to Mrs. Dulcimer, and thereby stimulated that lady’s efforts. ‘How clever it was of you to propose to visit the poor!’ said the Vicar’s wife to Bella, approvingly. ‘Just the very thing to please him.’