She did not know, though her husband did, that Doris was away on purpose,—knowing that Maurice might come, and not trusting herself to meet him. "Please, 'm,"—the little between-maid came in, twisting her apron-strings,—"please, 'm, it's a gentleman wants to see the Rector. And his name's Mr. Maurice, please, 'm." "Tell Mr. Maurice I am sorry that the Rector is engaged." Rose went and came back. "Please, 'm, Mr. Maurice says he can wait." "Tell Mr. Maurice it is of no use, I am afraid." A third appearance, round-eyed this time. "Please, 'm, the gentleman says he's got to see the Rector, and he don't mind how long he waits, not if it's hours, 'm." Mrs. Winton considered. Plainly this was a man with a will of his own. Since Doris was safely out of reach, it might be wise to yield. "Very well—if it has to be," she said resignedly. "Take Mr. Maurice into the study." The unwelcome caller being there installed, she made her way through the back-garden and along the lane,—for once, regardless of prying eyes behind muslin curtains. Mr. Winton had again fled for refuge to manual labour, from the pain of seeing his child suffer. When his wife entered, he was hammering with a vigour which relieved his feelings, but which made her put two hands to her ears. Whereupon he stopped. "The man has come, Sylvester." "Eh? Who?" "The man himself!—Mr. Maurice. I told you we should have him here. I sent him word that you were engaged, but he refused to go. You must see him, and make things clear." "Couldn't you tackle him, my dear?" "Certainly not. That is your business. And remember, you have to be firm—firm! He is on no account to see Doris, and he is not to come again. You have to get rid of him, once and for all." Mr. Winton knew the need, but he hated the task before him. "Well, well," he muttered, and was going off as he was, till a scandalised forefinger pointed at his workaday apron. "Oh, ah!— I forgot!"—and he tossed it off. Three minutes later he was in the study; a broad, ungainly figure, seamed and rugged in face, awkward in bearing; not the type of father pictured beforehand by the young fellow who stood awaiting him. Yet in those deep-set eyes was a gleam of something which found its way to Maurice's sore heart, and gave him a sense that at least he would be understood. The Rector put out his hand, and it was gripped with a force which told of passion below. Now that suspense was about to be ended, Maurice hardly knew how to hold himself in. "Sit down, please," Mr. Winton said, and took the lead in doing so,— his gaze bent searchingly upon the other. "You don't need to be told who I am, Mr. Winton,—or why I've come. My name is Richard Maurice; and I am here to ask for your daughter's hand." The burning dark-grey eyes looked full at him; and the Rector liked them, liked the good open brow above, liked the frank, manly carriage. If only it had been possible, he felt that he would have welcomed such a husband for his child.