And the doctor turned his weather-beaten elderly face upon her with a look which was half defiance and half apology. She, on her side, had flushed painfully, laying her white fingertips imploringly on his arm. Mrs. Seaton turned away with a little dry cough, so did her spectacled sister at the other end of the table. Mrs. Leyburn, on the other hand, sat in a little ecstasy, looking at Catherine and Dr. Baker, something glistening in her eyes. Robert Elsmere alone showed presence of mind. Bending across to Dr. Baker, he asked him a sudden question as to the history of a certain strange green mound or barrow that rose out of a flat field not far from the vicarage windows. Dr. Baker grasped his whiskers, threw the young man a queer glance, and replied. Thenceforward he and Robert kept up a lively antiquarian talk on the traces of Norse settlement in the Cumbrian valleys, which lasted till the ladies left the dining-room. As Catherine Leyburn went out Elsmere stood holding the door open. She could not help raising her eyes upon him, eyes full of a half-timid half-grateful friendliness. His own returned her look with interest. ‘“A spirit, but a woman too,”’ he thought to himself with a new-born thrill of sympathy, as he went back to his seat. She had not yet said a direct word to him, and yet he was curiously convinced that here was one of the most interesting persons, and one of the persons most interesting to _him_, that he had ever met. What mingled delicacy and strength in the hand that had lain beside her on the dinner-table--what potential depths of feeling in the full dark fringed eye! Half-an-hour later, when Elsmere re-entered the drawing room, he found Catherine Leyburn sitting by an open French window that looked out on the lawn and on the dim rocky face of the fell. Adeline Baker, a stooping, red-armed maiden, with a pretty face, set off, as she imagined, by a vast amount, of cheap finery, was sitting beside her, studying her with a timid adoration. The doctor’s daughter regarded Catherine Leyburn, who during the last five years had made herself almost as distinct a figure in the popular imagination of a few Westmoreland valleys as Sister Dora among her Walsall miners, as a being of a totally different Order from herself. She was glued to the side of her idol, but her shy, and awkward tongue could find hardly anything to say to her. Catherine, however, talked away, gently stroking the while the girl’s rough hand which lay on her knee, to the mingled pain and bliss of its owner, who was outraged by the contrast between her own ungainly member and Miss Leyburn’s delicate fingers.