Bess, supremely happy, once more in her father’s presence, sat and chatted pleasantly. Never an idea crossed her mind that it was any serious trouble which had driven them from London. She believed that George, at first fearing his father had found out his address, had determined to leave the Ducks for awhile. Afterwards, when he determined to go to the hall, she thought he had made up his mind, after all, that it would be better to make a clean breast of it and trust to his father’s generosity. She believed, poor little woman, that George had taken the best course he could, and that happy days were in store for them. As to the squire refusing to be reconciled to his son, or to receive the wanderer, such an idea never entered her head. Who could refuse George anything? Besides, if he had married her, she couldn’t see that was such a very great crime. She looked in the glass and saw every excuse for a young man doing such a thing. Her father was not a menial; he was an old and valued retainer, and had been the old squire’s companion in many a long walk and in many an evening chat under the great wide-spreading trees of the park. She had been born on the estate, and the squire had always been kind to her and treated her like a lady. She had had quite as good an education as many of the gentry’s children round about, for it had been a whim of the squire’s lady to send her to school, and some day she had thought of going out for a governess. But her mother died, and, instead of going out into the great world, she stayed at home with her father and fell in love with Master George. And now they were married. Well, perhaps the squire would have chosen some one higher in rank for his son, but his son might have done much worse. Bess had a spirit of her own and a fair amount of pride. She was quite sure the squire need not be very angry with George for marrying her. George sat and listened to Bess’s busy tongue, but he hardly heard a word she said. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, and they were not nearly so pleasant as Bess’s. Towards nine he drew Marks on one side. ‘He’s alone in the library about this time, isn’t he?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the old lodge-keeper; ‘he sits there all the evening after dinner now, writing and reading and talking to himself.’ ‘How can I get in without the servants seeing me?’ ‘The outer hall-door is not closed; the inner door opens if you turn the handle. But, lor’, Master George, as if you didn’t know the ways of the house as well as me!’ ‘What about the dog? If he recognises me he’ll bark and bring the servants up.’ ‘I’ll go up and let him out, and take him for a run while you go in,’ said Marks. ‘But what can it matter if the servants do see you, Master George?’ ‘I don’t want them to, Marks. You’d understand why if you were in my position.’