The apparition turned half round, and revealed her features in profile. Her lips seemed to move, she smiled very sweetly, and then suddenly moved out of the sphere of vision, and left Winnington still open-mouthed, open-eyed, gazing towards the window. “A nice enough girl,” said Arthur coldly; “but come along; the old woman will be anxious to get home; and besides, I am very hungry.” “I shall never be hungry again,” said Winnington, still transfixed and immoveable. “You may go if you like. Here I stay in hopes of another view.” “Good night, then,” replied Arthur, and rapidly walked away. How long the astonished Winnington remained I cannot tell. It was late when he arrived at the rectory. The old woman, as Arthur had warned him, had gone home. Arthur let him in. “Well!” he enquired, “have you found out the unknown?” “All about her--but for heaven’s sake some bread and cheese. Is there any here?” “I thought you were never to be hungry again.” “It is the body only which has these requirements. My soul is satiated for ever. Here’s to Ellen Warleigh!”--he emptied the cup at a draught. “The Squire’s daughter?” “His only child. They have been abroad for some years; returned a fortnight ago. Her father and she live in that desolate house.” “He will set about repairing it, I suppose,” said Arthur. “He can’t. They are as poor as we are. And I am glad of it,” replied Winnington, going on with his bread and cheese. “He has an immense estate,” said Arthur, almost to himself. “Combe-Warleigh must consist of thousands of acres.” “Of heath and hill. Not worth three hundred a year. Besides, he was extravagant in his youth. I met the shoemaker at the gate, and he told me all about them. I wonder if she’s fond of butterflies,” he added: “it would be so delightful for us to hunt them together.” “Nonsense, boy; finish your supper and go to bed. Never trouble yourself about whether a girl cares for butterflies or not whose father has only three hundred a year and has been extravagant in his youth.” “What a wise fellow you are,” said Winnington, “about other people’s affairs! How many hundreds a year had Lucy’s father? Nothing but his curacy and a thousand pounds he got with aunt Jane.” “But Lucy’s very fond of butterflies, you know, and that makes up for poverty,” said Arthur, with a laugh. “The only thing I see valuable about them is their golden wings.”