‘Yours obediently, ‘CHRISTIAN HAREFIELD.’ Cyril had questioned Bella Scratchell more than once about her friend, without betraying the warmth of his interest in Beatrix. ‘Yes, she is very dull, poor thing,’ said Bella. ‘I am more sorry for her than I can say. I go there as often as I can, and do what I can to cheer her. But Beatrix was never a cheerful girl, you know, and she gets graver and more silent every day. Miss Scales is quite anxious about her, and wants her to take bark.’ ‘I doubt if bark is a cure for an unhappy home,’ said Cyril. ‘No--if you call her home unhappy. But really she has everything a girl could wish. Handsome old rooms to herself--no disorder--no noisy brothers upsetting things. She has her books--and a governess who adores her--a fine old garden beautifully kept--a pony carriage--a horse to ride.’ ‘Unfortunately those things won’t make youth happy,’ answered the curate: ‘they might be sufficient for happiness at the end of life; they are not enough for it at the beginning.’ ‘I know that life is a very different thing without them,’ sighed Bella. ‘Would you change places with Miss Harefield?’ asked Cyril. Bella blushed and cast down her eyes. ‘No,’ she said softly. She meant that she would not barter her hope of Cyril’s love for the advantages of Beatrix Harefield’s position, though she had envied those advantages ever since the childish days in which she first became Miss Harefield’s playfellow. One afternoon, towards the close of November, Cyril was returning from a tramp across the moor. He had been to a distant village to see the ailing married daughter of one of his parishioners, who had fancied that a visit from the kind curate would do her sick daughter more good than ‘doctor’s stuff.’ It was a clear afternoon, a yellow sunset brightening the western horizon. This long lonely walk had given him much time for thought, and he had been thinking of Beatrix all the way. She was so much in his thoughts that, although he had had no hope of meeting her, it seemed scarcely strange to him when he heard the muffled sound of hoofs upon the short grass, and looking round saw her riding towards him at a fast canter. What was he to do? He had promised to hold himself aloof from her. He was neither to see nor write to her during the two years of probation. He had made up his mind that she would pass him at that flying pace, that he would see the slim figure--erect in the saddle, firmly seated as an Arab on his loosely held courser--flash by him like a vision of pride and beauty, and be gone. He stood bare-headed to see her pass, expecting to receive no more notice than a bow, or doubtful even whether she would see him, when she pulled her horse almost on his haunches, wheeled round, and met him face to face. ‘How lucky!’ she cried, flushing with delight. ‘I have been dying to see you. I thought I could not be mistaken, when I saw your figure in the distance, and I rode after you.’