Mrs. Dulcimer had her wish gratified. At the gate of the Vicarage a large and blundering vehicle loomed upon her through the rainy darkness. It was one of the Great Yafford flies, a cumbrous conveyance of wood, iron, and mouldy leather, which Mr. Bollen, of ‘The George,’ innkeeper and postmaster, facetiously called a landau. ‘Have you brought any one from the town?’ asked Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Yes, mum, I’ve bringed a gen’leman from t’ steation.’ Mrs. Dulcimer went into the house delighted. She forgot the awfulness of things at the Water House, forgot everything but this propitious arrival of Sir Kenrick. ‘My dear Kenrick!’ she exclaimed, making a friendly rush at the newly-arrived guest, as he stood in the hall talking to the Vicar. ‘How good of you to remember your promise!’ ‘My dear Mrs. Dulcimer, do you suppose there is any house in which I would sooner spend my Christmas than in this? But what terrible news this is about Mr. Harefield.’ ‘Is it not awful? Poor Beatrix, without a relative; and with hardly a friend except Clement and myself. With her great wealth, too--for now she is mistress of everything.’ ‘There is no one else, I suppose, to whom Mr. Harefield can have left his estates?’ ‘Not a creature. He lived like a hermit, and Beatrix is his only child. It is a great fortune for a girl to be mistress of.’ ‘Is it really so large a fortune?’ inquired Kenrick, in a conversational tone, taking off his coat and wraps. ‘Immense. Mr. Harefield’s mother was old Mr. Pynsent’s only daughter, and a great heiress. There is the Lincolnshire property. I have heard Mr. Scratchell say that it brings in more than the Yorkshire estate.’ ‘In plain words, Beatrix will have something like ten thousand a year,’ said the Vicar, rather impatiently. ‘A great deal too much money for any young woman, and likely to be a burden instead of a blessing.’ ‘Not if she marries an honourable man, Clement,’ remonstrated Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘All depends upon how she marries. She ought to marry some one who can give her position. She does not want a rich husband.’ Mr. Dulcimer sighed. ‘If our English Church had what it ought to have, educational establishments for women, I should recommend Beatrix to avoid the rocks and shoals of matrimony, and bestow her wealth upon such an institution. She could live very happily as the foundress and superior of a Protestant convent, like Madame de Maintenon, at St. Cyr.’ ‘With this difference,’ said Sir Kenrick. ‘Madame de Maintenon was an old woman, and had had two husbands.’ ‘But her only period of happiness was at St. Cyr.’ ‘So she said; yet she intrigued considerably to be Queen of France, _à la main gauche_.’ ‘Clement!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, looking the image of horror; ‘the word convent makes me shudder. When a Protestant clergyman talks approvingly of convents, people may well say we are drifting towards Rome.’