BY slow degrees Beatrix arrived at an understanding of her position. People in Little Yafford believed her guilty of her father’s murder. The idea was horrible, and she would have fled, but pride came to her rescue, and she stayed, defying all the slanderous tongues and cold cruel eyes in the village, from the judicial discourse and pale gray orbs of Miss Coyle, to the lively comments and little red-brown rat-like optics of Mr. Tudway. She met cold looks and averted heads at the church door, where she had been wont to find herself saluted with nods and becks, and a world of sympathy and friendliness. Now and then she encountered a startling glance, as of wonder that she should dare to enter the church. Even Mrs. Dulcimer was cold, and seemed embarrassed by Beatrix’s presence, though affecting all the old cordiality. But the Vicar was full of kindness, and tried to make up for everybody else’s cruelty. His charity was not of the officious kind which forces itself upon people who do not want it, but it was that stronger and wider charity which is inexhaustible for those who do. He had let Beatrix come and go as she pleased hitherto, and had never pressed her to remain. Now he took her under his wing, brought her from the Water House to the Vicarage on his arm, and let the whole village see that he was not ashamed of his ward. ‘Mr. Dulcimer always cared too much for the fleshpots of Egypt,’ said Mrs. Coyle. ‘Miss Harefield’s money blinds him to her character. A sad thing to see a minister of the gospel so devoted to worldly things.’ One day, stung by the disapproving look of a face that passed her in the village street, Beatrix made a sudden appeal to Miss Scales. ‘What does it all mean?’ she asked, in an agitated voice. ‘Why do these people give me such horrible looks--or pretend not to see me? I don’t want their friendship. They are nothing in the world to me. But I can’t endure to live in an atmosphere of dislike. What does it mean?’ ‘My dear Beatrix, I had rather you did not ask me,’ Miss Scales answered, stiffly. Her manner had been gaining stiffness ever since her return from Devonshire. A deeply bordered letter had come to announce the aunt’s death, and a week after there had come another letter in a blue envelope, from a local solicitor who had drawn the old lady’s will, to inform Miss Scales that her aunt had appointed her sole executrix and residuary legatee. There was a legacy to the faithful old servant--a little sum in consols to provide for puss and pug--ancient favourites who had quarrelled daily for the last fifteen years--and all the rest went to Miss Scales. She was now a lady of property like her pupil, with an unencumbered estate of nearly two hundred a year. ‘It would have been quite two hundred,’ said Miss Scales, ‘if it hadn’t been for the money in consols left to Martha. I think my aunt might have left me to provide for Martha and Floss and Fido. I should have taken care they never wanted anything.’