"I should have thought, Mr. Daunt, that only applied to strangers." The tones shewed annoyance. "My father, Sir Robert Blanchflower, was an old friend of Sir Wilfrid's." "Can't help it, Miss," said Daunt, not without the secret zest of the Radical putting down his "betters." "There are queer people about. I can't let no one in without an order." As he spoke, a gate slammed on his left, and Daunt, with the feeling of one beset, turned in wrath to see who might be this new intruder. Since the house had been closed to visitors, and a notice to the effect had been posted in the village, scarcely a soul had penetrated through its enclosing woods, except Miss Amberley, who came to teach Daunts crippled child. And now in one evening here were three assaults upon its privacy! But as to the third he was soon reassured. "Hullo, Daunt, is that you? Did I hear you telling Miss Blanchflower you can't let her in? But you know her of course?" said a man's easy voice. Delia started. The next moment her hand was in her guardian's, and she realised that he had heard the conversation between herself and Daunt, realised also that she had committed a folly not easily to be explained, either to Winnington or herself, in obeying the impulse which--half memory, half vague anxiety,--had led her to pay this sudden visit to the house. Gertrude Marvell had left Maumsey that morning, saying she should be in London for the day. Had Gertrude been with her, Delia would have let Monk Lawrence go by. For in Gertrude's company it had become an instinct with her--an instinct she scarcely confessed to herself--to avoid all reference to the house. At sight of Winnington, however, who was clearly a privileged person in his eyes, Daunt instantly changed his tone. "Good evening, Sir. Perhaps you'll explain to this young lady? We've got to keep a sharp lookout--you know that, Sir." "Certainly, Daunt, certainly. I am sure Miss Blanchflower understands. But you'll let _me_ shew her the house, I imagine?" "Why, of course, Sir! There's nothing you can't do here. Give me a few minutes--I'll turn on some lights. Perhaps the young lady will walk in?" He pointed to his own rooms. "So you still keep the electric light going?" "By Sir Wilfrid's wish, Sir,--so as if anything did happen these winter nights, we mightn't be left in darkness. The engine works a bit now and then." He led the way towards his quarters. The door into his kitchen stood open, and in the glow of fire and lamp stood his three children, who had been eagerly listening to the conversation outside. One of them, a little girl, was leaning on a crutch. She looked up happily as Winnington entered. "Well, Lily--" he pinched her cheek--"I've got something to tell Father about you. Say 'how do you do' to this lady." The child put her hand in Delia's, looking all the while ardently at Winnington. "Am I going to be in your school, Sir?" "If you're good. But you'll have to be dreadfully good!"