“You remember my mentioning to you a large house called Knightswell, not far from my cottage?” He did not look at her, but his eyes had an absent glimmer, not quite a smile, as they fixed themselves on the work she had on her lap. “Yes, I do.” “I have been there to-day.” “Been all that way, Bernard?” “Yes.” Mary did not fail to understand that it was now her turn to question. “You have friends there?” “A friend. If you will listen I will tell you a story.” He related all that he knew of the history of Isabel Clarendon, as if it had been told to him or he had read it somewhere, up to the time of his first meeting with her; he described her exactly, and described Ada Warren also, the latter, as far as his knowledge allowed, with perfect justice. “One of those, Mary, is my friend; which do you think?” “You have made it too easy to guess,” his sister answered good-naturedly. She had listened with the utmost attention, leaning forward, her arms crossed upon her sewing. “_Not_ Miss Warren!” “But I do not dislike her; you mustn’t think that.” “Still, you would not go all the way to Knightswell to see her.” He said nothing. Mary was nervously impatient. “But what a strange, strange story! And she--Mrs. Clarendon--may be sent from her home any day? Is Miss Warren likely to marry?” “She is engaged, but will not be married till she is of age. That will be in rather more than a year.” “And what will Mrs. Clarendon do then?” He paused a moment before answering. But at length: “She has promised to be my wife.” “Bernard!” Mary threw her work down, and came and kissed his forehead. She could say nothing; stricken with wonder and confused emotions of pleasure, she strove to realise the truth of what he had told her. Then Kingcote took from his pocket the case in which he kept Isabel’s portrait. Mary gazed at it in long silence. “But how strange!” she murmured, when she turned her eyes away to dream absently. “You think she might have made a better choice.” “I have no such thought, Bernard, as you know well. Is it known to her friends?” “No,” he replied, shortly. “I wonder what Miss Warren would think?” He mused, wondering himself.