‘Pray don’t alarm yourself,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, remembering her promise to Bella. ‘Miss Scratchell hasn’t an idea upon the subject. I know that she admires--reveres--esteems you--’ she added, thinking it just possible to turn the tide of his feelings by the warm south wind of flattery; ‘but beyond that--no--Bella has too much modesty, I am sure she has not a thought about being married. It is only I who am anxious to see her comfortably settled. Of course I cannot blame you for my having been deceived about your feelings. But I really do think, Cyril, that when a young man is engaged he ought to let his intimate friends know all about it. It would prevent misunderstandings.’ ‘There are reasons why I should not talk about my engagement. It has not been ratified by the consent of the lady’s family. It may be long before I can marry.’ ‘Ah!’ thought Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘some artful girl he met at Oxford, I daresay. A university town is a regular man-trap.’ She was seriously concerned about Bella. The poor girl would fret perhaps, would lay her sorrow at Mrs. Dulcimer’s door; and for once in her life the Vicar’s wife felt herself to blame. In the active exercise of her charity she had done more harm than if she had loved her neighbour a little less intensely, and left other people’s business alone. ‘Poor Bella!’ she thought, and she felt almost afraid to face her victim; yet she was bound to go and console her, so, after a little desultory talk with Cyril about nothing particular, she excused herself, on the pretext of looking after the tea, and left the curate to amuse himself with the books and periodicals heaped on Mr. Dulcimer’s table, the sober drab _Quarterly_, the _Edinburgh_ in yellow and blue, the philosophical _Westminster_, lurking among his more orthodox brethren, like a snake in the grass. The dining-room was empty when Mrs. Dulcimer returned to it. Bella had carried her crushed heart out of the house, into the gray rainy night, which seemed in harmony with her desolation. She had crept quietly from the room, directly the conversation between Cyril and Mrs. Dulcimer had changed to general topics, and had gone upstairs to put on her bonnet and shawl. On Mrs. Dulcimer’s dressing-table she left a brief pencilled note. ‘I could not stay after what has happened, dear friend. We have both been foolish. Pray think no more about it.’ Mrs. Dulcimer found this little note, presently, when she went upstairs to arrange her cap, and re-adjust the frilling and puffings about her neck and shoulders. The little note gave her unspeakable relief. ‘Noble girl!’ she exclaimed, ‘how heroically she takes it. Yet I am sure she is fond of him. And how good of her not to feel angry with me for having misled her.’