Since the evening when he had tried to cut down the barrier over the brook at Walden, the Watsons had seen little of Mr. Hockheimer. He had not again attempted to interfere with their property. He seemed to spend a good deal of his time in London, but made flying visits every week to the Hall. People in the neighbourhood gave him the cold shoulder. Though he was generous in subscribing to local charities, he was certainly not popular. The general feeling was one of mistrust. Nothing certain had ever been brought against him, but the fact of his German nationality remained. It was whispered that but for influence in high quarters he would have been interned. Whether Mr. Hockheimer was or was not aware of the rumours that were being circulated in his disfavour it was impossible to tell. He never came to church, seldom appeared in the village. He was more strict than ever against trespassing in his woods, though other landlords in the district had been lax in that respect since the beginning of the war. The Watsons disliked him so much that they avoided him whenever possible; if they saw him walking along the village street they would dive down a side lane or run up into the churchyard. They thoroughly pitied Pamela for being dependent upon him. Since the memorable morning when she had climbed over the palings into the garden, and had hidden inside the stable, Avelyn had never visited Moss Cottage. She was sure that she had then almost surprised some secret. Pamela, indeed, had been on the very verge of telling her. Her friend's confidential mood had passed, however, and a wall of reserve had taken its place. One Saturday Avelyn, taking out her home work, made the horrible discovery that she had left her history in her locker at school. To go to Miss Thompson's class with an unprepared lesson meant trouble. The only way out of the difficulty was to walk over and borrow from Pamela, who, though in a lower form, used the same textbook for history. This time she did not venture to climb over the palings, but knocked at the door in orthodox fashion. It was opened by Pamela herself, who beamed a welcome. "Come in! I'm all alone. Mother's gone to the station. I was just getting horribly tired of being by myself. It's perfectly lovely to see you! My history? Yes, you shall have it, certainly. I've learnt my lesson. But come in and have a chat. I was sitting in the garden. Shall we go out there?" Avelyn much preferred the garden to the rather dark little sitting-room. The girls went to a shady corner under a tree, where Pamela had spread a rug and cushions. They settled themselves down leisurely and began to talk. "What's this you've got here?" asked Avelyn presently, taking up a Prayer Book that was lying on the rug, opened at the last page. "Are you studying the Table of Articles? You surely don't have to learn that in your Scripture lesson? We did the 'Book of Common Prayer' last term, but we didn't take the Articles."