Then, as she talked on, Anstice soon learnt the real cause of the girl's bitterness. In the sorrow of her soul she poured it into her ears. It was a pitiful little love story. One day, as she had been polishing the brasses in the tiny church, a stranger with a camera had walked in. He had asked questions about the neighbourhood which Louise had been able to answer. They had walked about together, had become very friendly, and then as he was lodging at a farm near, and had fishing rights in the lake, they met again the next day. He was handsome and plausible; he amused himself by flattering her and drawing out her best qualities. She, simple girl as she was, fell headlong in love with him. And after three weeks of love-making, she considered herself engaged to him. He was going back to London; they had a mutual friend there, a school friend of hers, a fellow art student with him. He seemed to be a dabbler in many things. He did a little journalism, a little painting, sent his photos to a Black and White Magazine, and was author of a small book of poems. When he had gone, she felt her life a blank, but looked forward to his letters. She received one, and then no more. After two months of agonized waiting, she heard through her friend that he was engaged to another girl, and had alluded to his time down at the Lake end as an "amusing episode." Then the iron entered into her soul, and Anstice saw that even now, after four years had passed, the blow was still heavy. She put her arms in a motherly fashion round the girl. "Oh, Louise," she said, "life is bigger than you think it. The time will come when you too will look back, and treat the past as only an episode. You have done nothing dishonourable; we women often love and trust too much. Put it from you, dear. And now listen! I have a dozen schemes for your good. How would it be to advertise for a paying guest? Londoners would revel in your quiet, tranquil little nook, and many a hard-worked girl would love the seclusion of your life. It would be an interest to you for all the summer months. You might even find some one who would like to stay the winter with you." "Oh no, that would be impossible. And uncle will not have visitors. Indeed, they would not stay a day. We are very poor, and our food is the very simplest. I have not the means to make them comfortable. I did think of it once, but Uncle Edgar would not hear of it." "Well, if you are badly off, could you not have 'Teas' for visitors? The hotel farther on is being shut up, I hear. It would be rather fun for you, and teas are quite easy to manage. Let me tell you of an old couple who live in another lonely part of the Fells. The sister told me she was never lonely nor unhappy. That the visitors who came for her teas brightened her life." Anstice went on, giving an account of old Tommy Nixon and his sister. Louise listened, but her face did not lighten; she only shook her head. "Uncle Edgar wouldn't allow it—I know he would not."