‘Sh, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘don’t you be frightened. I am not going to compromise you. I hope I have more tact than to do such a thing as that. But I shall draw him out. I won’t have him trifle with you any longer. He shall be made to speak his mind.’ ‘Dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I beg----’ ‘Mr. Culverhouse, ‘um,’ announced Rebecca. ‘He wanted to see master, but he says you’ll do. I’ve shown him into the libery.’ Mrs. Dulcimer rose without a word, squeezed Bella’s hand, put her finger on her lip mysteriously, and passed through into the next room, dropping the curtains behind her. Bella grew pale, and trembled a little as she crept towards the curtains. ‘I think she must mean me to listen,’ she said to herself, and she took her stand just by the central line where the two curtains met. Mr. Culverhouse had come to beg help for some of his poor people. Widow Watson’s little boy had fallen into the fire, while his mother was out getting her little bit of washing passed through a neighbour’s mangle, and there was old linen wanted to dress his wounds, and a little wine, as he was very weak from the shock. Good-natured Mrs. Dulcimer ran off to hunt for the linen, and to get the wine from Rebecca, and Cyril was left alone in the library. Bella stole back to her chair by the fire. He might come in, perhaps, and find her there. He was quite at home in the house. She felt that she would look innocent enough, sitting there by the little work-table. She might even simulate a gentle slumber. She was wise enough to know that girlhood is never prettier than in sleep. Cyril did not come into the dining-room. She heard him walking slowly up and down the library, deep in thought, no doubt. ‘If Mrs. Dulcimer is right, he must be thinking of me,’ said Bella. ‘I think of him all day long. He shuts everything else out of my thoughts.’ Presently Mrs. Dulcimer came back. ‘I have sent off a parcel of linen and some sherry,’ she said. ‘A thousand thanks for your prompt kindness. It is really a sad case--the poor mother is almost heartbroken----’ ‘Poor thing,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘I cannot think how they do manage to set themselves on fire so often. It’s quite an epidemic.’ ‘Their rooms are so small,’ suggested Cyril. ‘True. That may have something to do with it. How tired you must be this wet day! You’ll stop to tea, of course. Clement has been book-hunting at Great Yafford, and will be home soon. I have got a brace of pheasants for him. He’ll want something nice after such a wretched day. How is Mary Smithers?’ Mary Smithers was the girl Bella had talked of visiting. ‘No better, poor soul,’ said Cyril. ‘There is only one change for her now.’ ‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘and that is a blessed one for a girl in her position.’ Her tone implied that heaven was a desirable refuge for the destitute, a supernal almshouse, with easier terms of election than those common to earthly asylums.