No change had taken place in Jean's manner of life. It had been a continuous going on in the old lines; the harder part of her studiously cultivated, the softer part stamped down and driven inward. She had been trained in a splendid mastery of principle over inclination; she had been taught any amount of self-repression and self-control; body and mind had been well and wisely handled. But training and cultivation of the heart's affections had not been equally prominent. Mr. Trevelyan was always just and even, always entirely high-principled; and Madame Collier was always practical. Neither of the two was in manner gentle or loving. Had it not been for three definite outlets, Jean's softer and more affectionate side would have been walled up and subjected to a slow starvation. These three were—her passionate and absorbing love for Oswald; her quiet friendship with Cyril; her interest in the sick and needy of the parish. Jean's tenderness thus found a three-fold vent, and did not die; but at present it crept through those vents in a shamefaced and surreptitious fashion. Jem Trevelyan might have supplied a fourth softening element. During years, however, he and Jean had seen little one of another. With her Ingram cousins, Mabel especially, Jean was on agreeable terms, and that was all; for the three girls, pleasant as they were, and popular in many quarters, touched no inner chord of Jean's being. As Mabel had said, Jean "really liked" very few people. "Really to like" in her case meant more than mere liking, and not "really to like" meant profound indifference. Springing over her fourth stile, on the way homeward, she was arrested by an exclamation: "Jean! That's jolly!" "Cyril! You here!" "I'm come to meet you—by accident." "How did you know where I was?" "Intuition." "Nonsense." "Madame Collier told me you'd gone to Dutton, so of course I knew you'd come this way. I say!—Give me that basket." "No. Cyril, let it alone. I like to carry something." "So do I!"—dexterously twisting the handle off her arm. "How you bother!" "Yes, I know. It's only for your good. What's inside the basket?" "Nothing that concerns you." "Hanks of darning cotton, I do believe. I say, Jean, you must use an uncommon lot of old socks at the Rectory. Madame Collier's one earthly occupation is turning them over. I never find her at anything else; unless it is grubbing up stones in the garden." "Stockings, you mean; not socks." "Two varieties of the same genus. What are you hurrying for, now?" "Aunt Marie will want me." "Let her! I want you more." "I can't wait, really. She will be vexed." "Have you got to darn? I'll come and read to you, then."