So thought Henry, who as yet had never matched himself in earnest in such a war. There he sat, strong in his rectitude and consciousness of virtue, however much his heart might ache, making mental preparations for his departure on the morrow, till at last he grew tired of them, and found himself wishing that Joan would come to help him to get ready. He was lying with his back to the door on a sofa placed between the bed and the wide hearth, upon which a small fire had been lighted, for the night was damp and chilly; and just as this last vagrant wish flitted through his mind, a sound attracted his attention, and he turned to discover that it had been realized as swiftly as though he were the owner of Aladdin’s lamp. For there, the candle still in her hand, stood Joan, looking at him from the farther side of the hearth. It has been said that she was struck by her own appearance as she passed towards his room; and that the change she saw in herself cannot have been altogether fancy is evident from the exclamation which burst from Henry as his eyes fell upon her, an exclamation so involuntary that he scarcely knew what he was saying until the words had passed his lips: “Great Heaven! Joan, how lovely you are to-night! What have you been doing to yourself?” Next second he could have bitten out his tongue: he had hardly ever paid her a compliment before, and this was the moment that he had chosen to begin! His only excuse was that he could not help himself; the sudden effect of her beauty, which was so strangely transfigured, had drawn the words from him as the sun draws mist. “Am I?” she asked dreamily; “I am glad if it pleases you.” Here was a strange beginning to his pending announcement of departure, thought Henry. Clearly, he must recover the situation before he made it. “Where have you been all this afternoon?” he asked in an indifferent voice. “I have been out walking.” “What, alone, and in the rain?” “I did not say that I was alone.” “Whom were you with, then? It can’t have been your aunt.” “I was with Mr. Samuel Rock: I mean that he met me.” “What, that farmer who Mrs. Gillingwater told me admires you so much?” “Yes. And what else did she tell you?” “Well, I think she said she hoped that he would propose to you; but I didn’t pay much attention, it seemed too odd.” “Well, however odd it may be, that is just what he has been doing,” answered Joan deliberately. Now Henry understood it all: Joan had accepted this man, and it was love for him that made her breast heave and her eyes shine like stars. He ought to have been delighted—the difficulty was done with, and no trouble could possibly ensue—and behold, instead he was furious. He ought to have congratulated her, to have said the right thing in the right way; but instead of congratulation the only words that passed his lips were such as might have been uttered by a madly jealous and would-be sarcastic boy.