"I must think what can be done. The woman is a perfect sieve, and if she is not checked, the whole tale will be over Lynnbrooke in a week. She will pour it all out to the Squire, the first thing. Perhaps, if she does, he will stop its going farther. She is setting her cap at him, so she will do what he wishes." The bare idea of Mrs. Brutt at Lynnthorpe, in the capacity of Katherine's aunt, was enough to send Mr. Winton into a prolonged chuckle. "Yes, of course. We see the absurdity, but she doesn't. She has an overweening notion of her own importance." Mrs. Winton pondered these things as she sat at her davenport. It had been decided between herself and her husband that something should be said to the Squire, anticipating Mrs. Brutt's probable confidences. Since he had confessed to knowing this young doctor, he might give fuller information as to the latter's antecedents. He had been absent from home since the arrival of Mrs. Brutt's former letter; but he was expected to return this morning. And as she debated, her husband appeared, ushering in the Squire. "I told Mr. Stirling, my dear, that we had a question to ask him. Perhaps we had better adjourn to the study. Doris may come in here any moment." The move having been made, Mr. Winton spoke a few words of careful inquiry. They were anxious to know about the young Edinburgh surgeon, whom they had named to him before,—Mr. Maurice. Would he be willing kindly to give them further particulars? The Squire was leaning back in an arm-chair, with the air of languor which had lately often characterised him. He did not stir, but asked—"Particulars as to what?" "You mentioned that his connections were unsatisfactory." "They would not satisfy you." "His parents?"—inquiringly. "I am not able to go into the matter fully. It should, I think, be sufficient to say—and I do say it emphatically—that you would disapprove of them." "You mean," Mrs. Winton put in, "that we should disapprove of him as an acquaintance for Doris." "If that is all you wish to know—yes." The husband and wife exchanged glances. Mr. Stirling had spoken with an unwonted touch of sharpness; and he looked, the Rector thought, strangely pale. "That is not all," Mr. Winton said, taking the matter into his own hands. "Mr. Maurice has proposed for Doris. And she wishes to accept him." The Squire seemed to rouse himself with an effort. He sat upright, facing them both. "Does this mean that you wish for advice,—that you will allow me to offer advice?" "Yes—certainly!" "Then, if I were you, Winton, I would write by the next post, and refuse consent." "Unfortunately, I can't. He sends no address, but says he will call in person for his answer, to-morrow or next day." "He does!—does he?" There was a lightning-flash of indignation, though the Squire still spoke restrainedly. "It would be of no use giving you his Edinburgh address. A letter sent there would not arrive in time."