MR. and Mrs. Dulcimer and their ward went back to Little Yafford on the same day that saw Sir Kenrick’s departure from Southampton in the Peninsular and Oriental steamer. The parting between the betrothed lovers was more serious than sentimental. Beatrix was touched by Kenrick’s devotion, and grateful for his confidence, and there was a grave tenderness in her manner at parting which made him very happy, for it seemed to him the promise of a warmer feeling in the future. ‘You will be thinking of me sometimes when I am away,’ he said. ‘Yes. You will be serving your country. I shall honour you for that.’ ‘If there is no war I shall sell out ten months hence, and be with you before the year is out. But if war should break out--and there is always some trouble cooking in the witches’ caldron of Indian politics--it may be longer before we meet. You will not forget me, Beatrix. Your feelings will not change--if our separation should be longer than we anticipate.’ ‘I have given you my promise,’ she said, with a noble simplicity that impressed him deeply. ‘If you were to be away ten years instead of one year, there would be no difference. I should not break my word.’ ‘And you would remember--and love me?’ he urged. ‘I have not promised to love you,’ she answered. ‘I have only promised to be your wife.’ ‘Ah!’ he sighed, ‘that is different, is it not? Well, dearest, the love must be won somehow. Perhaps if there is some hard fighting, and I come home with one arm the less, and a captaincy, you will think more of me. I shall think of you when I am storming a fort--if there should be any forts to storm.’ Then he took her in his arms, kissed the pale brow and tremulous lips, and gave her his farewell blessing, and so left her, full of hope. There never was man born who doubted his power to win a woman’s love. The Vicar and his wife were both anxious that Beatrix should remain at the Vicarage, but Beatrix had made up her mind that she ought to go back to the Water House. The old servants were all there; nothing had been altered since her father’s death. ‘I shall be tranquil and happy there,’ she argued, when Mrs. Dulcimer tried to persuade her that she would be miserable. ‘I shall have my books and piano, and shall work hard, and I shall be free to come and see you as often as you care to have me.’ ‘That would be always,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, who had been rapturously fond of Beatrix ever since the success of her matrimonial scheme. ‘But, my love, you cannot possibly live alone. People would talk.’ Beatrix shuddered. Young as she was, she had had bitter experience of the power of evil tongues. ‘I suppose I must have what Thackeray calls a sheep dog,’ she said. ‘As I have outgrown my governess I must have a companion. Would not Bella do?’ ‘No, dear, she is not old enough. It would be just the same as having no one. It will be only for a year, remember, Beatrix. A year hence you will be married, and your own mistress.’