Mr. Culverhouse sighed as he opened his umbrella and went out into the cold and rain. This Christmastide did not come upon him as a particularly happy season--save in its purely spiritual aspect. He was full of anxiety about Beatrix. It was hard to live so near her, and yet not dare to approach her. He had seen her in church every Sunday morning, and had seen her looking ill and worn. He knew that she was unhappy, and without a friend except Bella Scratchell. What a dismal season Christmas must seem for her, poor child! How cruel a mockery the joy-bells, and holly boughs, and outward semblance of festivity! His business to-day took him the direction of the bridge. He could see the Water House on the other side of the river, its gray walls and ivy-covered entrance tower looming darkly through a mist of rain. Who was this approaching him along the muddy road, struggling manfully against wind and rain? Cyril could see nothing but a pair of pepper and salt legs under a gingham umbrella. The pepper and salt legs brought the umbrella nearer him. It was an umbrella with a slippery brass handle, and altogether an affliction to its possessor. A sudden gust blew it on one side, and revealed the countenance of Mr. Namby, pale and agitated. ‘How d’ye do, Namby?’ said Cyril, with no intention of saying more, for the village surgeon was a talkative little man, and the busy curate had no time to waste upon gossip. But Mr. Namby made a dead stop. ‘Oh, Mr. Culverhouse, I have just come from the Water House.’ This was enough to bring Cyril to a standstill also. ‘There is awful trouble there.’ ‘Good heavens! What trouble? Is Miss Harefield ill?’ ‘Poor child! She is in a dreadful state. Her father is dead.’ Cyril felt as if his heart had stopped beating. The rainy landscape rocked before his eyes, the muddy road reeled beneath his feet. ‘Dead!’ he gasped. ‘Dead, suddenly. And I’m afraid by poison.’ ‘What!’ cried Cyril. ‘You must be mad to say such a thing.’ ‘It will be for the coroner to decide; there will be an inquest, of course. But I have no doubt as to the cause of death. There are all the symptoms of poisoning by opium.’ ‘Good God! Was he in the habit of taking opium?’ ‘Not to my knowledge.’ ‘But he surely must have been. How else should he come by his death? It must have been an over dose of opium.’ ‘I never heard him complain of acute pain. He had an iron constitution. He had no reason for taking opium that I can see.’ ‘No reason! Look at the men who take it without reason, for the pleasure of taking it. Look at Coleridge--De Quincey. Mr. Harefield was just the kind of man to be an opium-eater. That would account for his hermit-like life existence--his seclusion from all the world. He had a world of his own--he had the opium-eater’s paradise.’ ‘It is possible,’ said Mr. Namby, doubtfully. ‘But it is strange that I should never have perceived the symptoms. There are unmistakable indications in the appearance of the habitual opium-eater.’