“I’m going to send Celia away on Saturday,” said Mr. Rose; “make yourself happy and comfortable in here till then. If you’d like another crust o’ bread or an extra half pint o’ water you’ve only got to mention it. When she’s gone I’ll have a hunt for that key, so as you can go back to your father and help him to understand his law-books better.” He strode off with the air of a conqueror, and having occasion to go to the village looked in at the shoemaker’s window as he passed and smiled broadly. For years Little Haven had regarded Mr. Quince with awe, as being far too dangerous a man for the lay mind to tamper with, and at one stroke the farmer had revealed the hollowness of his pretensions. Only that morning the wife of a labourer had called and asked him to hurry the mending of a pair of boots. She was a voluble woman, and having overcome her preliminary nervousness more than hinted that if he gave less time to the law and more to his trade it would be better for himself and everybody else. Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on Saturday morning after her father’s admonition not to forget that the coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell visits. By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince becoming conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her standing before the window. He replied to a bewitching smile with a short nod and became intent upon his work again. For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened the gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden. With growing astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the door behind her. For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little way, peeped in. It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural implements. The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall, sat Miss Rose fast asleep. Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep. At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words “idiot” and “blockhead.” “She’s dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with conviction. “Wonder who it is?” “Can’t see—a thing—under—his—nose,” murmured the fair sleeper. “Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply. “_Celia!_” He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle. A singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was all. “_Ce-lia!_” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke. “Fancy if he—had—a moment’s common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily, “and locked—the door.”