"You may have all this, and yet you may miss a great deal of what your despised city men call life," she went on, with an old-fashioned sagacity that surprised the young man, who was simple enough in his way. "You miss contact with other minds. Here you can have no opportunity of gleaning new ideas. There must be a certain amount of stagnation here. Cathy knows what I mean; she and I have often talked of it." She finished with slight abruptness, somewhat provoked by the incredulous smile that rose to his lips. "Stagnation here!" How Queenie wished he would not repeat her words. "You are hard on us and Hepshaw. Of course we are simple country folk; we do not aspire to be anything else; but a peaceful and independent existence does not necessarily mean stagnation." "Mr. Clayton, why will you persist in misunderstanding me?" returned Queenie, in a vexed voice. They were standing at the extreme edge of a jutting piece of rock; the others had turned back, and were watching some machinery at work; below them lay the wide moor. Some peewits were flitting hither and thither; a bank of white clouds sailed slowly away westward. "I am not hard on Hepshaw; I feel already that I love it dearly. I only thought that you, being a man, must sometimes long for a little more society." "Because I am like Ted, and have no resources, I suppose?" but this time there was a mollified gleam in his eyes. "I think I am one of the quiet sort; a few friends content me. Mr. Logan is a host in himself, with sufficient information to stock half-a-dozen ordinary men, not to mention Captain Fawcett, who has travelled and seen the world; and then we have Harry Chester at Karldale, and Mr. Ray, the Vicar of Karlsmere, and the Sowerbys of Blandale Grange,--very sensible good people,--and the Cunninghams, Dora and her father at Crossgill Vicarage. My sisters must take you over there, Miss Marriott. One can have friends enough for the asking," continued Garth, loftily. "I always disliked crowds of acquaintances; I am not like Ted." Queenie gave him an understanding glance, but her closed lips offered no response. The shrewd little observer of human nature was saying to herself, "I have found you out, Mr. Clayton; you are good, but you are not perfect. Cathy is right. It is better, so you think, to be the leading man in Hepshaw, and king in Warstdale, than to be simply Mr. Clayton in London or Carlisle; to lord it over inferior minds than to mix with superior intelligences;" and, as she recognized this trait, something like a pang of disappointment crossed her mind. Was he not a sort of hero to her? and ought not heroes to be perfect?