Bess’s eyes were still fixed frankly on his face. Their expression convinced the reverend gentleman that this red-mouthed Phœbe was telling the truth. “My trouble is just this, sir,” she confessed: “My kinsfolk want to bully me into marriage against my will, and I ran away from home last night, and came to see Mr. Jeffray yonder, who had promised to be my friend.” Parson Sugg elevated his eyebrows and noticed that Bess was blushing prettily. “Mr. Jeffray’s ill with the small-pox,” he said. “So they told me, sir, at the house. It was a great distress to me.” Dr. Sugg took snuff, sneezed twice with emphasis, and glanced at Bess with a curious twinkle in his eyes. “Are you from Pevensel, my dear?” “Yes, sir.” “One of the Grimshaws, eh?” Bess nodded, and watched the stolid passage of thought over the rector’s good-natured countenance. “And are you the girl, my dear, for whom Mr. Jeffray had his head broken in the woods?” Bess laughed and colored, her eyes brightening wonderfully. “Mr. Jeffray saved me from my cousin Dan,” she confessed. Dr. Sugg shook his head reprovingly, and yet smiled as though he thoroughly sympathized with Mr. Richard in the adventure. He had heard of the affair from Jeffray himself. His respect for the young squire was solid and sincere. Possibly it was this same affection for his patron and a lively liking for this forest wench that persuaded the good-natured old gentleman to interest himself in her behalf. “So Mr. Jeffray offered to play the protector to you?” he asked. “He is an honorable gentleman, sir.” “Egad, you are quite right, my dear. And this would-be husband of yours, you don’t fancy him, eh?” The sincerity of her disrelish was passioned forth on the girl’s face. “I hate him,” she answered, hotly, “for he has tried to play many a coward’s trick by me. It was only the pistols Mr. Jeffray gave me that saved me last night. I want to hide myself, sir, till Mr. Jeffray is recovered.” Dr. Sugg looked grave and not a little puzzled. The girl’s frank and childish trust in the master of Rodenham was certainly a charming Platonism, but one that might lead to delicate complications. Richard Jeffray might be a generous young gentleman, and a man of honor, but he had hardly arrived at that patriarchal and convincing age when romantic philanthropy becomes disinterested in the eyes of the world. Bess Grimshaw’s spirit pleased the old gentleman not a little. He was a born sportsman as well as a Christian, and was honestly concerned for the girl’s future. “What’s your age, my dear?” he asked, settling his wig and brushing the snuff from his waistcoat. “Two-and-twenty, sir.” “Can you milk and cook and use your needle?” Bess smiled and confessed to all these accomplishments. “I would serve in a farm-house,” she said, “to get myself an honest home.”