Just then some one from within came to the door and spoke to Geoffrey. It was only a servant with some trivial message, but Ralph, still watching earnestly, noticed the gentle courtesy, the smile sunnying over the clear, honest eyes and mouth, the frank, bright readiness with which the young man looked up and answered. Then refolding the letter he had been reading, replaced it in his pocket, and sauntered away in an opposite direction. “Yes,” thought Ralph, “I am satisfied she spoke truly. He is ‘good and true and kind.’ And attractive too, personally, very. Most women would not find it difficult to love that man. But then, alas, my poor child is not like most women! Come what may however, I don’t think that man will ever be unkind to her. Heaven knows I am not vain, but it would be nonsense to pretend to myself that I think she will ever come to feel for him, good fellow though I don’t doubt he is, what I know she has felt for me. But yet, in time and when totally separated from all associations connected with me, I trust a sort of moonlight happiness may yet be in store for her.” Here Ralph’s reflections were interrupted by the tardy entrance of the servant, who waited to receive his orders. “How soon will the horses be ready?” asked he. “Whenever you please, Sir,” replied the man. “In a quarter of an hour at most your carriage can be round.” “Very well,” said Ralph, “you can order it to come round in twenty minutes from now. In the meantime, bring me pens and ink and paper, as I have a letter to write,” adding as the man was leaving the room, “By-the-by, who is the gentleman that drove in just now?” “Mr. Baldwin, Sir. Comes from Brentshire, I believe. Least-ways the lady’s maid does. Mrs. Baldwin is here too, Sir. A walkin’ in the garden she is, I believe. Were you wishing to speak to Mr. Baldwin, Sir? He has just stepped round to look at a horse which the ostler was thinking might carry the lady while here, but I can run after him if so be you wish to see him, Sir.” “I; oh dear no, not at all,” replied Ralph, who began to think a more appropriate sign for the little inn would have been “The Magpie.” “Only be so good as bring in the writing materials at once.” When they were brought, he sat down and wrote; quickly and unhesitatingly, as if perfectly prepared with what he had to say. His letter folded and directed, he sauntered out into the garden again. “There’s just a chance,” he thought, “that I may get it unobserved into her own hands, otherwise I must post it, which, however, I would much prefer not to risk.” Looking about he spied a small boy busy weeding. He called the child to him and led him, to the top of the long narrow path, at the end of which was the green with the peacock bush in the centre, and the old arbour at the side. He felt no doubt that Marion was still there, her husband fortunately having gone to the stables.