"Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want to see Polly's baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever maid." "I was very glad she went," said Julia gravely. "Glad? Why?" "Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained to me several times." "Cyril is a wretch!" said Cynthia, with heightened colour. "Papa ought to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?" "Yes, I thought her very nice and superior. She is the churchwarden's niece. Hush! here is Mr Paulby." "Good-morning, ladies," said a little plump man, raising his hat and showing his slightly-bald head. "What a lovely morning! I think I dare prophesy where you are going." "If you prophesy Morrison's cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right," said Cynthia, merrily. "Then I am right," said the curate. "I have just come from there, and Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all over the Continent with you." "She didn't tell you about Cyril, I know," said Cynthia to herself. "I'm really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited again," said the curate, "and I hope you will help me a great deal." "That indeed we will, Mr Paulby," said Julia. "Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and everything," said Cynthia, quickly. "And now we must say good-morning, Mr Paulby. Come, Julia." There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate's hat, and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation was "Hah!" a remark that evidently meant a great deal. "I'm not going to allow that, Ju," said Cynthia, decidedly. "The little man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know--" "Don't be absurd!" said her sister, colouring a little. "That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a pretty little place Polly has got!" The sisters stopped at the road-side to gaze at the long low ivy-covered cottage, with a broad patch of green in front, upon which was a lumber of broken carts and waggons waiting to be doctored. There was a shed at one end, from which came the sound of sawing, for which job there was a good-sized pit, while farther on the road dipped suddenly down and passed through a little river, which foamed and bubbled and sparkled as it turned the gravelly shallows into liquid silver in the morning sun. "Oh, what a funny little thing!" cried Cynthia, as they were welcomed into the neat cottage. "Look at its little button-hole of a mouth. Let me take it, Polly."