When Mrs. Markham did not use the carriage—a very rare occasion, as she had almost a monopoly of it—she would take us for long country drives, and she would contrive all sorts of little surprises for us. Once when we returned from a saunter in the lanes, we found our tea table laid in the orchard, and Miss Cheriton presiding, in a gay little hat trimmed with cornflowers and poppies. There was a basket of flowers in the centre of the table, and a heap of red and yellow fruit. We had quite a little feast that evening, and all the time we were sitting there, there were broods of chickens running over the grass, that Gay had enticed into the orchard to please the children, and grey rabbits, and an old lame duck that was her pensioner, and went by the name of Cackles. “Oh, auntie, do have another feast,” Joyce would say to her, almost daily; but Miss Cheriton could not always be with us; visitors were very plentiful at Marshlands, and Gay’s company was much courted by the young people of Netherton and Orton-upon-Sea. I knew Mr. Hawtry was a constant visitor, for we often met him in our walks; and it seemed to me that his face was always set in the direction of Marshlands. When Rolf was with us he was never allowed to pass without notice, and then he would stop and speak to the children, especially to Joyce, who soon got over her shyness with him. “Mother says Mr. Hawtry comes to see Aunt Gay,” Rolf remarked once, when he was out of hearing; “she told grandpapa so one day, and asked him if it would not be a good thing; and grandpapa laughed and nodded; you know his way. What did mother mean?” “No doubt she meant that Mr. Hawtry was a kind friend,” I returned, evasively. How is one to silence a precocious child? But of course it was easy to understand Mrs. Markham’s hint. I wondered sometimes if Mr. Hawtry were a favoured suitor. He and Miss Cheriton certainly seemed on the best of terms; she always seemed glad to see him, but her manner was very frank with him. I took it into my head that Gay had more than one admirer. I deduced this inference from a slight occurrence that took place one day. I was on the terrace with the children one morning, when a young clergyman in a soft felt hat came up the avenue. I knew him at once as the boyish-faced curate at Netherton Church, who had read the service the last two Sundays. I had liked his voice and manner, they were so reverent, but I remembered that I thought him very young. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, and though not exactly handsome, had a bright, pleasant-looking face. Rolf hailed him at once as an old acquaintance. “Holloa, Mr. Rossiter; it is no use your going on to the house; mother is not well and cannot see you, and Aunt Gay is with the bees.” Mr. Rossiter seemed a little confused at this. He stopped and regarded Rolf with some perplexity. “I am sorry Mrs. Markham is not well, but perhaps I can see Mr. Cheriton.”