It would have been difficult to find a more easy-going, kind, happy-tempered man than Mr. Ingram. He had never married--this was not because he had not loved. Stories were whispered about him, and these stories had truth for their foundation--that when he was young he had been engaged to a girl of high birth, great beauty of person, and rare nobility of mind. Evelyn St. Just had died in her youth, and Mr. Ingram for her sake had never brought a wife home to the pleasant old Rectory. His sorrow had softened, but in no degree soured the good man. There had been nothing in it to sour any one--no shade of bitterness, no thread of unfaithfulness. The Rector firmly believed in a future state of bliss and reunion, and he regarded his happiness as only deferred. As far as his flock knew, the sorrow which had come to him in his youth only gave him a peculiar sympathy for peculiar troubles. To all in sorrow the Rector was the best of friends, but if the case was one where hearts were touched, if that love which binds a man to a woman was in any way the cause of the distress, then the Rector was indeed aroused to give of his best to comfort and assist. On the evening after her strange interview with Josephine Hart, Beatrice put on her hat, and coming down to her mother where she sat as usual in the pleasant drawing-room, told her that she was going to see Mr. Ingram. "It is rather late to-night, surely, child?" "No, mother, it is not too late. I want particularly to see Mr. Ingram to-night." "Are you well, Bee? Your voice sounds tired." "I am quite well, dear mother. Kiss me. I won't stay longer away than I can help." She left the house. It was getting dusk now, and the distance between the Gray House and the Rectory was not small. But no Northbury girl feared to be out alone, and Beatrice walked quickly, and before long reached her destination. The Rector was in--Beatrice would find him in his study. The old housekeeper did not dream of conducting Miss Meadowsweet to this apartment. She smiled at her affectionately, told her she knew the way herself, and left her. When Beatrice entered the study the Rector got up and took his favorite by both her hands. "I am glad to see you, my child," he said. "I was just feeling the slightest _soupçon_ of loneliness, so you have come in opportunely. Sit down, Bee. I suppose Bertram will call for you presently." Beatrice did not make any response to this remark, but she drew a little cane chair forward and sat down. "Except your mother, no one will miss you more than I shall when you leave us, Beatrice," said the Rector. "You are quite right to go, my dear. Quite right. I see a useful and honorable career before you. But I may be allowed just once to say that I shall be lonely without my favorite." "Dear Rector," said Beatrice. She came a little nearer, and almost timidly laid her hand on his knee. Then she looked in his face. "I am not going to leave you," she said.