When some minutes had passed, and still she did not come out, he began to feel alarmed, to wonder whether she had given him the slip. He walked round to the back, and saw that the cottage, which was one of a row of three, had a good garden behind it, and that there was a path which led from the garden across the fields. Presently he went round to the front again, and knocked at the door. It was opened after the second knock, by a very respectable-looking old woman, with a kindly, pleasant face. “Is Miss Biron staying here?” asked Bram, wondering whether Claire was using her own name or passing under another. But the answer put to flight any doubts. “Yes, sir,” said the woman at once. “She is staying here, but she isn’t in at present. She’s just this minute gone out.” Bram felt his blood run cold. Claire was avoiding him then! The woman seemed to know of no reason for this sudden disappearance, and went on to ask-- “You are a friend of hers, sir?” “Oh, yes, a very old friend of hers and her father’s.” “And do you come from her father, sir?” “Yes, I saw him this morning.” “Ah,” cried she sharply. “And I hope he’s ashamed of himself by this time for turning his daughter, his own daughter, out of his house!” Bram said nothing. He did not know how much this woman knew, nor who she was, nor anything about her. “I suppose he wants her back again?” she went on in the same tone. “He does indeed. He’s very ill. He has erysipelas all over his face and one of his hands, and is even in danger of his life. It has led to serious inflammation internally. He wants a great deal of care, such care as only his daughter can give him.” “Dear me! Dear me! Well, we must hope it’ll soften his hard heart!” said the woman, coming out a step to listen. “He was always a light-minded, careless sort of a man. But I never thought he’d turn out so bad as he has done--never. He was a taking sort of a gentleman in the old days when he came courting Miss Clara, and married her and carried her off.” A light broke in upon Bram. This was some old servant of the family of Claire’s mother, who had lived out her years of service, settled down, and “found religion” within sight of the old house, within the walls of which her girlhood had been passed. He had seen from the outside, as he looked in through the window at Claire, the framed texts of Scripture which hung on the walls, the harmonium in the corner, with a large hymn-book open upon it--the usual interior of the English self-respecting cottager. “You lived in the family,” said Bram, “did you not?”