And what delight it was by-and-by to wander out into the cool garden, leaving the Rector to prose to poor Edgar over his Chambertin, and to lose themselves in the shadowy shrubbery, where the perfume of golden broom and mock orange seemed intensified by the darkness. Daphne sat in the quaint old candle-lit drawing-room conversing with the two matrons—Aunt Rhoda inclined to lecture; Mrs. Turchill inclined to sleepiness, having eaten a more elaborate dinner than she was used to, and feeling an uncomfortable tightness in the region of her velvet waistband. Edgar got away from the Rector as soon as he decently could, and came to the relief of the damsel. ‘Well, mother, how are you and Daphne getting on?’ he asked cheerily. ‘I hope you have made her promise to come to see you at Hawksyard.’ Mrs. Turchill started from semi-somnolence, and her waistband gave a little creak. ‘I shall be delighted if Madoline will bring her sister to call on me some day,’ she replied stiffly, addressing herself to nobody in particular. ‘Call on you—some day! What an invitation!’ cried Edgar. ‘Why, mother, what has become of your old-fashioned hospitality? I want Daphne to come and stay with you, and to run about the house with you, and help you in your dairy and poultry-yard—and—get used to the place.’ Get used to the place! Why should Daphne get used to the place? For what reason was a fair-haired chit in a white frock suddenly projected upon Mrs. Turchill’s cows and poultry—cows as sacred in her mind as if she had been a Hindoo; poultry which she only allowed the most trusted of her dependents to attend upon? She felt a sudden sinking of the heart, which was much worse than after-dinner tightness. Could it be that Edgar, her cherished Edgar, was going to throw himself away upon such a frivolous chit as this; a mere school-girl, without the slightest pretension to deportment? Daphne all this time sat in a low basket-chair by the open window, and looked up at Edgar with calm friendly eyes—eyes which were at least without guile when they looked at him. CHAPTER XIII. ‘AFTER MY MIGHT FUL FAYNE WOLD I YOU PLESE.’