“Yes,” she said, “why should you--from me? I felt there was something; if there is a mystery about them, surely, Bertie, I am the best person to confide it to. I think I have a right to know.” What could she mean? did she mean that there being a secret understanding between them, any “new interest” on his part ought to be confided to her? The Rector was profoundly puzzled. He had never said anything to Lucy, nor Lucy to him, to warrant such a pretension as this. “Of course,” he said, faltering, “you know that you are the first person I would confide in--if there was anything to confide. The idea that you care to know is too sweet to me, Lucy.” She looked him full in the face; asking in her turn, what did he mean? sweet to him, why should it be sweet to him? What was there in her question to give him this flattered yet confused look? She regarded him very gravely with inquiring steady eyes. “I think you must fail to understand my question,” she said. “And of course I can’t help being anxious. Tell me; there can be no possible reason,” she added, with some impatience, “why you should not tell _me_!” But there was something so comical in the perplexity which succeeded that expression of happy vanity in his face, that Lucy laughed out. “I don’t believe, after all, you have anything to tell,” she said. “Not I--not a scrap of anything; what could I have to tell? what could they be to me? I have eyes only for one,” said the Rector, still somewhat confused, and taking rather awkward advantage of the opportunity. They were just then approaching the gate, and Lucy gave her head that little toss of impatience which he was acquainted with, perceiving, with some anger, her mistake. “Here we are at the end of our joint road,” she said, abruptly; “thank you for carrying my basket so far, Bertie. Oh no, I prefer to carry it myself. I cannot indeed let you take any further trouble. Good morning. Papa expects you to-morrow, I believe.” “But that need not hinder me from coming now.”