"I am glad to hear that," said Beatrice quickly, for she thought that this preferment would remove Mrs. Snow from the neighbourhood--a thing devoutly to be wished for, since the woman disliked her. "So am I, because Mr. Snow will get a large salary; and, in spite of Mrs. Snow (who is a cat!), Mr. Snow intends to allow Jerry and me one hundred a year. Vivian (who is a dear!) intends to allow me the same, so what with this and Jerry's salary we'll have about four or five hundred a year to begin life on. I really don't know if I am standing on my head or my heels," cried Dinah, clapping her hands, and with her freckled face aglow with lively joy. "So you see, Beatrice," said Vivian, with a smile on his dark face, "her happiness and life are settled. She will marry Jerry, and help him to become the Shakespeare of his generation." "Oh no. Shakespeare only wrote plays!" said Dinah contemptuously. "Or was it Bacon? Jerry is to write novels, like Thackeray or George Eliot--but she was a woman, wasn't she? We'll be so happy; and I intend to furnish the drawing-room in cherry-colour, which always----" "My dear Dinah," said Vivian impatiently, "can't you leave these minor details to some future occasion?" "Ah! wait till you and Beatrice consult about the refurnishing of the Grange," said Dinah reprovingly; "then you'll find how important all these things are. Mr. and Mrs. Snow go to Wales in a month, Beatrice, and I shan't be sorry. I want to be miles and miles away from my future mother-in-law. But I must go." Dinah rose in a hurry. "I am on my way to the station to meet Jerry. I only called in to tell you how delicious everything is. Good-bye, good-bye!" and Dinah, kissing Beatrice twice, took herself off rapidly, while Vivian shrugged his shoulders. "What a whirlwind in petticoats!" said he good-humouredly. "I am glad she is to be happy with her lover," said Beatrice in a pensive manner. "And I am also glad," she added, looking attentively at Paslow, "to know that Mrs. Snow is leaving the neighbourhood." "So am I," said Paslow, with a sigh. "That woman hates you, Beatrice." "She cannot do me any harm," replied the girl, and then looked again at Vivian. She noted with a pang how worn and thin he appeared: noted also that there were white hairs amongst his thick black locks. "My poor boy," she said tenderly, "you have suffered!" Vivian looked at her in a startled way, and put out his hand as though to keep her off. "Don't," he said hoarsely, "or else I shall forget myself and take you in my arms." "Vivian"--she touched his arm and he winced, with a flush of colour, at the tenderness--"we may come together after all." "Beatrice!" he said breathlessly, then dropped the hand which he had seized. "You know who stands between us." "She may not always stand between us, Vivian." "What! Is she dead?" "No. But Major Ruck---- Wait, Vivian; let us sit down and talk. I have much to tell you, dear."