“A good deal. But he’s a thoroughly good fellow; I must look in at Wood End the first thing in the morning.” They resumed their seats. “Lucy,” observed the rector, “you are blooming to-night! Upon my word, every year makes you younger and more beautiful.” “What makes you think of such a thing just now?” asked the other, laughing as she shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose half the joy of happiness comes of contrast with others’ less fortunate lot.” “Oh, I don’t like to think that, Walter,” protested the wife rather sadly. “Many things are true, my dear, which we don’t like to think.” Lucy moved to reach something, and took the occasion to kiss her husband’s forehead. And Kingcote, plodding through the lane’s mud, reached his door. The old oak-stump in front of the cottage stood like a night-fear; the copse behind, all but stripped of leaves, gave forth dismal whisperings; rain beat hard upon the roof-thatch. The tenant took the key from his pocket and entered the cold room; he could not see his hands. Without seeking any light he felt his way up the crazy stairs, and lay down to such rest as he might find. It rained till noon of the following day, then began to clear. When a couple of hours of pale sunshine had half dried the hedges, Kingcote set forth to walk to Knightswell. Mr. Vissian had been as good as his word in calling. “Oh, nothing; a headache,” was the answer he received to his anxious inquiries. “I hope I wasn’t more than usually ill-mannered; pray ask Mrs. Vissian to try and tolerate me.” “You’re getting a little low, it strikes me; too much solitude. By-the-bye, you’ll look in at Knightswell this afternoon?” “I suppose Mrs. Clarendon feels obliged to ask me; I dare say she’d rather I kept away.” “My dear sir, these are outcomes of the black humour; you are not yourself. Mrs. Clarendon will be very glad indeed to see you; so she assured me. I pray you, fight against this tendency to melancholia.” It was difficult to reach the gates without having previously collected considerably more mud than one cares to convey into a lady’s drawing-room. Kingcote endeavoured to remove some of this superfluous earth as he walked up the drive by rubbing his boots in the wet grass; the result was not inspiriting. “Pooh!” he exclaimed impatiently. “If she really cares to see me, she won’t regard the state of my boots; any one who accepts such as I am, must take mud and all.” The thought appeared to amuse him, he walked on with a laugh. As he entered the garden, he met the trap just driving away from the house. A gentleman was seated in it. He had rather the look of a man of business, and was reading a letter. He scanned Kingcote, then resumed his reading.