“Delighted, I am sure,” murmured Sir Arthur, handing Gladys’ prayer-book which he had been carrying to the doctor, who stood grimly and uncompromisingly silent. It was natural that after that Gladys and Dr. Grant should walk together and Muriel find herself with Jack Hurstly. Cynthia Grant, the doctor’s sister, had not yet returned from a visit to the stables with Sir Alec. Muriel had not seen Jack for some time. He was always large and masterful (in the most calmly protective meaning of the word), but there was to-day a certain alertness and unobtrusive eagerness in his manner that was new to her. They knew each other well enough to be able to float off easily into commonplace chatter. It paved the way for all the important things which lost their stiffness by being set in a background of familiar banter. “I’m having a holiday,” said Jack, smiling down at her oddly. “You a holiday! You look terribly as if you needed it!” she laughed. “I’ve been working rather hard, really,” he said. “Fishing is over?” she asked. “Oh, Miss Muriel, but I’ve had a harder job to tackle. I’ve been trying to get the place at home in decent order—getting cottages built and all that sort of thing.” “You were always so practical,” she murmured. “Because, you see, the place has been a little weedy lately, and as I am to be off again soon I wanted to leave it in order before I went.” “Hunting big game?” she suggested indifferently. “Well—yes, rather. You see there’s been a little scrapping in India on the frontier, and—well, I thought it would be rather jolly to have a shot at the little beggars myself. You see the regiment being at Aldershot a fellow hasn’t got much to do, and so I have joined—temporarily, of course—a batch of men who are going out in September. Do you wish me luck?” “Your occupations,” said Muriel coldly, “always seem to me a little brutal.” Then she glanced more kindly at him. He was disconsolately grumbling, “Oh, I say now!” and cutting the heads off the nettles with his stick. They were nearing the church. “Oh, I hope, Jack,” she used the name with her old deliberate frankness, looking him in the eyes, steadily and kindly, “that you will have the best of luck. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you set to work again, and make something of all that’s in you—all I know that’s in you.” He beamed with pleasure, though he was still a little puzzled at her former sharpness. “It’s awfully good of you, Miss Muriel,” he said, opening the gate; “and you—you must know that if I am worth anything at all it’s all owing to you. And now that you say you believe in me,” he drew a long breath, “I think I could do anything—anything in the world to show you you’re not mistaken.” Muriel said nothing. When they reached the porch she turned to him, and not looking at him said slowly, “I am quite sure I am not mistaken, Jack.”