The party broke up the next morning. The doctor and his sister returned to town, while the others went to various other country houses, Muriel and her uncle going to Scotland for the remainder of her holiday. She was impatient to go back to her work, and the month passed in making arrangements and re-arrangements all involving voluminous correspondence. She wrote to Cyril Johnstone about Captain Hurstly’s club work, and as it was under parochial guidance, and various ritual stipulations of the young man’s were agreed to by the open-minded, slightly lax old vicar, he was soon settled in deeply earnest and energetic work such as the slow old parish had never seen before. Yet, as Muriel soon saw, the example of his stern habits and indefatigable labor bore much fruit of admiration and respect, though scarcely that imitation which the zealous young priest expected the doctrines he would have died for to bring forth. He was not satisfied with Muriel’s generous explanation. “It’s your doctrines that have made you, and if the people accept you, surely they are on the way to accept the doctrines?” She returned a week earlier than her uncle wished her to, to encourage Jack’s “Parson,” though she wrote to Jack that “your young priest doesn’t at all approve of me. He considers me a shallow society woman with a club craze, and shakes his head over my unaccountable friendship with you. He gave me splendid advice the other day, and I’m afraid I lost my temper with him, but the gravity with which he regarded me as he said, ‘My dear young lady, I am not speaking to you as a mere man, but from my priestly office,’ restored my sense of humor. . . . But no, Jack, I have a reason for wishing our engagement private. If it were any feeling of my own I would tell you, as it is you must take it on trust as you do me. Did you ever know Mrs. le Mentier very well?” Muriel wrote the last sentence and then crossed it out. He might think—— Besides, it was so absurd. She felt angry with herself for having crossed it out—it was so unimportant. She was surprised that night by a letter from Cynthia Grant, who had passed out of her mind with the press of duty and pleasure and life. Now, however, she awoke to a vigorous interest. “You will be surprised at what I am going to ask,” the letter ran, “but I hope that won’t shake you into the negative attitude that it does some people. I’m not going to tell you that I have any ‘religious views’ (and you will excuse me if I say that with most people they are little more—and distant views at that), because I haven’t; only it happens to please me to work, and I like you, consequently if you see any opening for a capable woman doctor who can give free ‘instruction’ to young women and practical help as well, let me know and I’ll come to you. My brother approves of my plan, and is going to get an assistant.