She put the question with studied carelessness. Yet Monica was certain it was asked with effort. “Did I not? I thought I used to tell you so much about my past life.” “So you did; but I never heard that name.” “You knew Arthur was a Pendrill.” “Indeed I did not. He was always Arthur to you. I wonder I never asked his surname; but somehow I never did. I had a vague idea that some such people as these Pendrills existed; but I never heard you name them.” “Perhaps you heard, and forgot it?” suggested Monica tentatively. “That I am sure I never did,” was the very emphatic answer. Beatrice was delighted with her morning’s ride. It was a beautiful autumn day, and everything was looking its best. The sea flashed and sparkled in the sunlight; the sky was clear and soft above them, the horses, delighted to feel the soft turf beneath their feet, pranced and curvetted and galloped, with that easy elastic motion that is so peculiarly exhilarating. The girl herself looked peculiarly and vividly beautiful, and Monica was not surprised at the affectionate interest Mrs. Pendrill evinced in her from the first moment of introduction. But she was a little surprised at the peculiar sweetness of Beatrice’s demeanour towards the old lady. Whilst retaining all her arch brightness and vivacity, the girl managed to infuse into her manner, her voice, and her words something gentle and deferential and winning that was inexplicably fascinating; all the more so from its evident unconscious sincerity. Mrs. Pendrill was charmed with the beauty and sweetness of the girl, and it seemed as if Beatrice on her side was equally fascinated. When the time came to say good-bye, and the old lady held both her hands, and gazed into her bright face, as she asked for another visit very soon, she stooped suddenly, and kissed her with pretty, spontaneous warmth. “Come again! Of course I will, as often as Monica will bring me. Good-bye, Mrs. Pendrill—Aunt Elizabeth I should _like_ to say”—with a little rippling laugh. “I think you are just fit to be Monica’s ‘Saint Elizabeth.’ Is it the air of this place that makes you all so perfectly delightful? I shall have to come and live here too, I think.” And as she and Monica rode home together over the sweeping downs, Beatrice turned to her after a long pause of silence and said: “Monica, it was a dangerous experiment asking me to Trevlyn.” “Why?” “Because I don’t feel as if I should ever want to leave it again. And I’m a dreadful sort of creature when I’m bent on my own way.” Monica smiled. “You will have to turn me out neck and crop in the end, I firmly believe. I feel I should just take root here, and never wish to go.” Monica shook her head with a look of subdued amusement.