The beautiful autumnal day was sinking to rest when Gerald Eversley and Ethel Venniker, walking slowly, drew near to the Hall, and, without saying anything to anybody, went to their bedrooms. There was a small dinner party at Helmsbury Hall that evening. ‘I say, Gerald,’ said Harry in the presence of some of the guests as soon as Gerald Eversley entered the reception-room, ‘what became of you and Ethel this afternoon? Why did you not come with us?’ ‘We lost you,’ said Gerald. ‘I suppose we must have taken a wrong turn.’ ‘What did you do?’ asked Harry, innocently. ‘We sat a good while on a seat in the park, talking,’ was the answer. ‘I hope,’ said Harry, ‘you found your conversation interesting.’ ‘Very,’ said Gerald, with a glance at Ethel, who was sitting on an ottoman not far off. She blushed slightly. ‘What did you talk about?’ asked Harry. ‘Oh! various things,’ replied Gerald. A captious critic would perhaps have remarked that the reply was not strictly accurate, as they had talked of one thing only. Late that same night, when the party had broken up, Ethel Venniker made her way to her mother’s bedroom. Lady Venniker was sitting by the fire. Ethel went up to her and put her arm around her neck and whispered, ‘Mother dear, I have something to tell you.’ Lady Venniker looked up with a sweet smile. ‘Perhaps you need not tell it me, darling,’ she said. ‘I think I can guess what it is.’ Ethel fell into her mother’s arms, and they kissed each other fervently. Then they sat by the fire talking until Lady Venniker was weary and could talk no more, Ethel telling of the strange new feeling that had sprung up in her heart, and wondering how and when her mother had found it out, Lady Venniker dwelling upon the holy and blessed duties of the married life, and pointing out, in softened tones, how much a maiden may do to help and elevate the man to whom her heart is given. The next morning Gerald Eversley was the recipient of congratulations from Lord Venniker and Harry. It was Harry’s birthday. Lord Venniker spoke with a certain reserved dignity or gravity of demeanour, as though he could not forget, and did not altogether wish his interlocutor to forget, that in winning the hand of his daughter he had won a treasure such as his natural expectations and ambitions could scarcely have aspired to.