‘Yes, the dearest creature in the world. I could never tell you what a comfort she has been to me--indulging all my caprices--consoling me in my sorrows--a second mother. And now she and I will go together to see my own mother’s grave--the convent where she died. I have been already to see the place of her birth.’ ‘My Beatrix, do you think I will ever let you take any journey again without my company? A man who has lost a jewel and found it again knows how to guard his treasure. You are mine henceforward--mine till death--unless you tell me I have forfeited your love.’ ‘I could not say anything so false. I have never left off loving you,’ she answered gently. ‘Do not let us talk of the past. Let us forget it, if we can. When I saw the announcement of poor Kenrick’s death in the _Times_ I felt myself free--and--I thought--perhaps--some day I should go back to Yorkshire to see the kind Dulcimers, and my good old servants--and then--you and I might meet. But I never thought it would be so soon.’ ‘God has been good to us, love. And now tell me, Beatrix, can you bear to give up your liberty and share the lot of a hard-working parish priest? Could you bear even to go with me into a busy, smoky town, full of foulest things--if I felt that duty constrained me to take up my abode there? Could you endure to live in such a place as Bridford, for instance? But, I forget, you do not know Bridford.’ ‘I could endure life even at Bridford with you.’ ‘Ah, but you have never seen the place, love.’ ‘I repeat that I could share your life and labours even at Bridford,’ she said, smiling at him. He gave a little sigh. ‘I am afraid you hardly know what you are promising. Know then, dearest, that I am in treaty with the Vicar of Bridford, with a view to getting his living transferred to me. It is a charge for which he is eminently unfitted. I began some good work there, and left it unfinished. As vicar I could do much that I vainly attempted as curate. I should have larger scope, better opportunities. I could get a band of hard-working young men round me. Yes, I believe I could transform the place.’ ‘I am like Ruth,’ said Beatrix, tenderly. ‘I follow where I love. Your duties shall be my duties, and your home my home. It shall go hard with me if I cannot make home pleasant to you, even at Bridford.’ ‘And you will be content to see your wealth applied to doing good among a rough and often ungrateful population?’ ‘I can imagine no better use for my wealth.’ ‘Would you not rather that we should live at Culverhouse, in that fine old house, in the midst of that beautiful country? Poor Kenrick’s death has made Culverhouse mine, you know.’ ‘I had rather live where your life can be most useful--noblest--and where I can help you.’ ‘My own dear love, you make me happier than words can say!’