By dint of long and earnest persuasion he wrung from her a promise that she would tell him—some time—and then, with a sense of being hunted and driven to bay, their destination reached, Hazel, with a desperate courage, feeling that she had better get over the inevitable at once, seized the opportunity when Paul’s back was turned to her—whilst he examined the horse’s hoof for a suspected stone—to whisper almost inaudibly, somewhere near the region of his ear: "Mrs. Charteris." Paul caught the words, and, starting up to capture and question the whisperer, was surprised to find that, quick as were his movements, he was already too late. The small back of the future Mrs. Charteris was already presented to him as she stood sedately, some yards away, knocking at the door of the Boutchers’ cottage. Mrs. Boutcher opened to Hazel with a gratified beam upon her shining, pink, well-favoured countenance. "You’re welcome, miss," she said, with a quaint, bobbing curtsey, "and the gentleman too, I am sure. Won’t he come in, miss? It is a poor place, but he is heartily welcome." Hazel glanced behind her. Paul was securing the horse and trap to the stone post of the gateway. "Thank you," she returned, "Mr. Charteris will like to come in, I know. We came to see little Bobbie, and I wanted to give you a pinafore for him, that I have made all myself, after Mrs. Doidge had cut it out." Bobbie himself, present, but invisible behind his mother’s back, was now dragged forward. "For shame!" Mrs. Boutcher exclaimed, gently shaking him. "Don’t you know the young lady what saved you from the very jaws? Say ’’Ow do you do?’ this moment, and none of your nonsense. He’ll understand some day what an obligation he is a-labouring under to you, miss," Mrs. Boutcher hastened to explain apologetically. "At present he is no more grateful nor what he would ’ave been if you’d just let him be." Hazel had been to see her _protégé_ twice before to-day, and found the constant references to what Mrs. Boutcher termed her "’eroism" somewhat embarrassing. Nevertheless, the good woman’s conversation caused her much diversion. One singularity of hers was never to mention death by name, though the meaning of the dread word was conveyed to her audience frequently, in all manner of ingeniously wrapped up and elegantly expressed phrases. Paul came in, and Mrs. Boutcher, with ready hospitality, dusted a second chair and asked him to be seated. "And if I might make you a cup of tea after your drive, I’m sure I should be honoured," she assured her guests.