"Mightn't there?" said Laura. Her little chin was propped in her hand. Her gaze swept the distant water of the estuary mouth, as it lay alternately dark and shining under the storm lights of the clouds. "An I'll juist warn yo o' yan thing, Laura," said Polly, with fresh energy. "There's soom one at Bannisdale itsel, as spreads aw maks o' tales. There's a body theer, as is noa friend o' yours." "Oh! Mrs. Denton," said Laura languidly. "Of course." Then she fell silent. Not a word passed the small tightened lips. The eyes were fixed on distance or vacancy. Polly began to be frightened. She had not meant any real harm, though perhaps there had been just a touch of malice in her revelations. Laura was going to marry a Papist; that was bad. But also she was going to marry into a sphere far out of the Masons' ken; and she had made it very plain that Hubert and the likes of Hubert were not good enough for her. Polly was scandalised on religion's account; but also a little jealous and sore, in a natural feminine way, on her own; the more so as Mr. Seaton had long since ceased to pay Sunday visits to the farm, and Polly had a sharp suspicion as to the when and why of that gentleman's disillusionment. There had been a certain temptation to let the future mistress of Bannisdale know that the neighbourhood was not all whispering humbleness towards her. But at bottom Polly was honest and kind. So when she saw Laura sit so palely still, she repented her. She implored that Laura would not "worrit" herself about such fooleries. And then she added: "But I wonder at Mr. Helbeck didna juist tell yo himsel aboot that telegram!" "Do you?" said Laura. Her eyes flashed. She got down from the stile. "Good-bye, Polly! I must be going home." Suddenly Polly gripped her by the arm. "Luke there!" she said in excitement. "Luke!--theer he goes! That's Teddy--Teddy Williams! I knew as I had summat to tell you--and when you spoak o' Hubert--it went oot o' my head." Laura looked at her cousin first, in astonishment, and then at the dark figure walking on the road below--the straight white road that ran across the marsh, past the lonely forge of old Ben Williams, the wheelwright, to the foot of the tall "Scar," opposite, where it turned seaward, and so vanished in the dimness of the coast. It was the Jesuit certainly. The two girls saw him plainly in the strong storm light. He was walking slowly with bent head, and seemed to be reading. His solitary form, black against the white of the road, made the only moving thing in the wide, rain-drenched landscape. Laura instantly guessed that he had been paying his duty visit to his home. And Polly, it appeared, had been a witness of it.