"I happen to know something of a young Maurice, living in Edinburgh,— probably the same." His words came slowly, and Mrs. Winton threw up alarmed hands. "You mean that he is an improper acquaintance." "I have nothing to say against him personally. But his connections are unsatisfactory." "You mean—if there were any danger of an attachment! No fear of that. Doris is too well trained; and she is as particular as I am myself. Not the slightest danger of such a thing. But the intercourse is undesirable. We had certainly better have her back as quickly as possible,—and this is the last time she shall be trusted with Mrs. Brutt. Quite the last time! I never did feel any confidence in that woman. She thinks of nothing but herself. But about Doris's return— if necessary, I suppose I must go myself." "No need," the Squire said. "Your wiser plan, if I may suggest it, will be to write and say that you cannot spare Doris any longer. If Mrs. Brutt does not wish to return yet, an escort can be found." He was already planning a letter which would bring the elder lady home also. It was not his wish that either of the two should remain in close touch with Maurice. A few minutes later he rode away, resolving to call at Wyldd's Farm. Some necessary business had to come first; but that should follow. He had not once been there since his rebuke to Winnie. CHAPTER XXVI Not Her Husband FARMER PAINE in his garden was whistling softly, while he plucked a bunch of rosebuds for Winnie. She had drooped a good deal of late; and he was very fond of the girl. Big strong man that he was, her gentleness appealed to him, and he had a tender heart. The niece "Molly" had disappointed him a good deal; she was so changed from the winsome maiden of earlier years, so "shut-up" and nonresponsive. And Jane was a trial. But he clung to Winnie. As he stood in his rough coat and gaiters, putting the buds together with large careful fingers, a man came through the field, and stopped at the gate. Not a gentleman; not a farmer; not an ordinary labourer; hardly a beggar. Mr. Paine was at a loss how to label him. He was short and knock-kneed, with toes that turned in, and a heavy narrow-browed face, a contrast to the fine old farmer. He might have been fifty or more, and he slouched along with an uncertain gait. Not the easy powerful swing of a sailor, or the characteristic roll of the Rector; but hesitating, dubious, wanting in aim. "Good morning," he said. "Farmer Paine, I s'pose. I'd know you agen, anywhere. Fine figure of a man you was—and you're that still. You dunno me—easy to see!" Farmer Paine looked up and down the sorry face, the backboneless, shambling figure. "No. I don't know you, my man. Perhaps I ought." A short laugh came in response.