"Yes, dear. It was the most wonderful thing that ever happened. He marched up to Newhall gate one morning in the course of his rambles, without having the least idea that I was to be found in the neighbourhood. Wasn't it wonderful?" "What could have taken him to Yorkshire?" "He came on business." "But what business?" "How do I know? Some business of papa's, or of George Sheldon's, perhaps. And yet that can't be. He is writing a book, I think, about geology or archaeology--yes, that's it, archaeology." "Valentine Hawkehurst writing a book on archaeology!" cried Miss Paget. "You must be dreaming, Charlotte." "Why so? He does write, does he not?" "He has been reporter for a newspaper. But he is the last person to write about archaeology. I think there must be some mistake." "Well, dear, it may be so. I didn't pay much attention to what he said about business. It seemed so strange for him to be there, just as much at home as if he had been one of the family. O, Di, you can't imagine how kind aunt Dorothy and uncle Joe were to him! They like him so much--and they know we are engaged." Miss Halliday said these last words almost in a whisper. "What!" exclaimed Diana, "do you mean to say that you have promised to marry this man, of whom you know nothing but what is unfavourable?" "What do I know in his disfavour? Ah, Diana, how unkind you are! and what a dislike you must have for poor Valentine! Of course, I know he is not what people call a good match. A good match means that one is to have a pair of horses, whose health is so uncertain that I am sure their lives must be a burden to them, if we may judge by our horses; and a great many servants, who are always conducting themselves in the most awful manner, if poor mamma's experience is any criterion; and a big expensive house, which nobody can be prevailed on to dust. No, Di! that is just the kind of life I hate. What I should like is a dear little cottage at Highgate or Wimbledon, and a tiny, tiny garden, in which Valentine and I could walk every morning before he began his day's work, and where we could drink tea together on summer evenings--a garden just large enough to grow a few rose-bushes. O. Di! do you think I want to marry a rich man?" "No, Charlotte; but I should think you would like to marry a good man." "Valentine is good. No one but a good man could have been so happy as he seemed at Newhall farm. That simple country life could not have been happiness for a bad man." "And was Valentine Hawkehurst really happy at Newhall?"