ALL through the sultry summer weather Beatrix and her companion. Madame Leonard, lived their quiet lives at the Water House, with no change of scene save to the wide airy moor, or to the hospitable Vicarage, where they usually spent two or three evenings of every week. People in Little Yafford, except some bitter and envious spirits of the Coyle type, had left off talking about Mr. Harefield’s death, and had begun even to feel somewhat ashamed of their former suspicions about Beatrix. The girl’s calm front and resolute manner, her daily presence among them, with that proud bearing which was natural to her, gave the lie even to facts, where facts were against her. If she had left the village, and sought refuge from malevolent tongues in some foreign country, Little Yafford would have been confirmed in its suspicions. She stayed, and the popular voice for some time denounced her as bold and brazen, hardened in wickedness, because she stayed; but by slow degrees this idea wore itself out. Her steadiness outwore suspicion, as water wears rock. Every month, and sometimes every mail, brought Beatrix an Indian letter. Her lover sent her a full account of his life, which had now become full of action and excitement. The second Burmese war had broken out, and was being carried on with more valour than discretion. A town was taken triumphantly and with little loss, and then abandoned to the care of a force too weak to keep or defend it. Retaken by the enemy, it had to be conquered again, and this time with a severe struggle. Prome was taken twice; the city of Pegu three times. Detachments were cut off; officers were murdered. Sir Kenrick’s regiment was in the thick of the strife. He had won his captaincy, and hoped, in a struggle that favoured rapid promotion, to get another step before he came home. ‘I wonder if you will think better of me, Beatrix,’ he wrote, ‘if I come back a major? There is a middle-aged sound about the title that you might hardly appreciate; but I assure you it is rather a grand thing now-a-days for a man to be a major before he is thirty. We are having a very jolly time of it--plenty of fighting--a state of things that I have always longed for. I felt myself born too late in being out of the Sikh war, when I heard our fellows disputing over their claret about Mooltan and Goojerat. But now I have had my chance, like the rest, and I hope that we may have peace before Christmas, so that I may see your dear face by the time the crocuses are golden in the Vicarage garden.’