It was different with Cuthbert Ramsay. He was as much at his ease in Mrs. Porter’s parlour as if he had known that lady all her life. He looked at her books without asking permission. He moved about with a wonderful airiness of movement which never brought him into anybody’s way. He fascinated Mrs. Kempster, and subjugated her husband, and impressed everybody by that strong individuality which raises some men a head and shoulders above the common herd. It would have been the same had there been a hundred people in the room instead of five. Mrs. Porter relapsed into silence, and the conversation was carried on chiefly by Cuthbert Ramsay and the Curate, until Mrs. Kempster declared that she must be going, lest the children should be unhappy at her absence from their evening meal. “I make a point of seeing them at their tea,” she said; “and then they say their prayers to me before nurse puts them to bed—so prettily, and Laura sings a hymn with such a sweet little voice. I am sure she will be musical by-and-by, if it is only by the way she stands beside the piano and listens while I sing. And such an ear as that child has, as fine as a bird’s! You must come and hear her sing ‘Abide with me,’ some day, Mrs. Porter, when you drop in to take a cup of tea.” Mrs. Porter murmured something to the effect that she would be pleased to enjoy that privilege. “Ah, but you never come to tea with me, though I am always asking you. I’m afraid you are not very fond of children.” “I am not used to them, and I don’t think that children like people who are out of the habit of associating with them,” answered Mrs. Porter deliberately. “I never know what to say to a child. My life has been too grave and too solitary for me to be fit company for children.” The Curate and his wife took leave and went briskly down the steps to the lane, and Theodore made a little movement towards departure, but Cuthbert Ramsay lingered, as if he were really loth to go. “I am absolutely in love with your cottage, Mrs. Porter,” he said; “it is an ideal abode, and I can fancy a lady of your studious habits being perfectly happy in this tranquil spot.” “The life suits me well enough,” she answered icily, “perhaps better than any other.” “You have a piano yonder, I see,” he said, glancing through the half-open door to an inner room with a latticed window, beyond which a sunlit garden on a bit of shelving ground sloped upwards to the edge of the low hillside, the garden vanishing into an upland meadow, where cows were seen grazing against the evening light. This second sitting-room was more humbly furnished than the parlour in which they had been taking tea, and its chief feature was a cottage piano, which stood diagonally between the lattice and the small fireplace. “You too are musical, I conclude,” pursued Cuthbert, “like little Miss Kempster.” “I am very fond of music.” “Might we be favoured by hearing you play something?”