Miss Cunningham spoke in a brisk, pleasant voice, though it had a sharp, decided note or two in it. She marshalled her guests with perfect ease and self-possession into the long bay-windowed drawing-room. A white-haired, aristocratic-looking man in an old gardening coat came out of the conservatory with a watering-pot in his hand. "Papa, you must come and talk to Miss Marriott and Miss Palmer, please. Let me take that watering-pot away, it is trickling all over the carpet, and your coat is covered with lime. Do you like a low chair, Miss Marriott? If you sit there you can see the flowers in the conservatory, and just a pretty peep of the garden. I hope you will talk to papa, he is so fond of talking to strangers. Miss Palmer, you know papa, of course?" "Miss Faith and I are old friends, my dear," interposed Mr. Cunningham. "Yes, I know; it is Miss Marriott who is the only stranger," returned Dora calmly, untying her hat. She had white dimpled hands, rather like a baby's. "Now, Mr. Clayton, please tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this time?" Mr. Cunningham proved himself a most genial host. He took Miss Faith and Queenie into the conservatory, and gathered some of his choicest flowers for them. A little summer shower had just commenced; the light patter of drops on the glass roof blended unceasingly with the voices. Dora's canaries were singing loudly; a small blue-black Skye terrier scampered over the wet lawn. Miss Faith seemed rapt in quiet happiness; Queenie was just a trifle absent and distracted. Through the conservatory door she could catch sight of a pretty group. Dora sat in her little low chair, and Cathy had ensconced herself on the rug at her feet. Garth stood with his broad shoulders propped against the wooden mantel-piece, looking at them both. His face wore an amused expression; evidently he was well entertained. "Do you think her pretty?" whispered Emmie, coming round to her sister's side. "She is like a picture, somehow; but I like your face best, Queenie, there is more in it." Queenie could not understand why the child's remark jarred on her. She colored hastily and turned away. But she told herself afterwards that Emmie was right on one point. Dora Cunningham was certainly not pretty: her teeth were a little too prominent, her nose was somewhat blunt and unformed, and her eyes were blue and still, and had no special depth in them. Her fair hair was her chief beauty; it was very abundant, and she wore it gracefully, just simply turned off from her face and knotted carelessly behind. At this early stage of their acquaintance Queenie hardly knew whether she was attracted or repulsed by the young mistress of Crossgill Vicarage. Her perfect self-possession, her absence of all consciousness, her cool, business-like comments on things in general, her faith in her own management and powers of observation, astonished Queenie not a little.