THOUGH Kenelm did not think it necessary at present to report to his parents or his London acquaintances his recent movements and his present resting-place, it never entered into his head to lurk _perdu_ in the immediate vicinity of Lily’s house, and seek opportunities of meeting her clandestinely. He walked to Mrs. Braefield’s the next morning, found her at home, and said in rather a more off-hand manner than was habitual to him, “I have hired a lodging in your neighbourhood, on the banks of the brook, for the sake of its trout-fishing. So you will allow me to call on you sometimes, and one of these days I hope you will give me the dinner I so unceremoniously rejected some days ago. I was then summoned away suddenly, much against my will.” “Yes; my husband said that you shot off from him with a wild exclamation about duty.” “Quite true; my reason, and I may say my conscience, were greatly perplexed upon a matter extremely important and altogether new to me. I went to Oxford,--the place above all others in which questions of reason and conscience are most deeply considered, and perhaps least satisfactorily solved. Relieved in my mind by my visit to a distinguished ornament of that university, I felt I might indulge in a summer holiday, and here I am.” “Ah! I understand. You had religious doubts,--thought perhaps of turning Roman Catholic. I hope you are not going to do so?” “My doubts were not necessarily of a religious nature. Pagans have entertained them.” “Whatever they were I am pleased to see they did not prevent your return,” said Mrs. Braefield, graciously. “But where have you found a lodging; why not have come to us? My husband would have been scarcely less glad than myself to receive you.” “You say that so sincerely, and so cordially, that to answer by a brief ‘I thank you’ seems rigid and heartless. But there are times in life when one yearns to be alone,--to commune with one’s own heart, and, if possible, be still; I am in one of those moody times. Bear with me.” Mrs. Braefield looked at him with affectionate, kindly interest. She had gone before him through the solitary road of young romance. She remembered her dreamy, dangerous girlhood, when she, too, had yearned to be alone. “Bear with you; yes, indeed. I wish, Mr. Chillingly, that I were your sister, and that you would confide in me. Something troubles you.” “Troubles me,--no. My thoughts are happy ones, and they may sometimes perplex me, but they do not trouble.” Kenelm said this very softly; and in the warmer light of his musing eyes, the sweeter play of his tranquil smile, there was an expression which did not belie his words. “You have not told me where you have found a lodging,” said Mrs. Braefield, somewhat abruptly.