And, although she did not speak much more pleasantly than usual, I thought it good-natured of her, and wondered whether Laurence had spoken to her about me and she was trying to be kind to please him. I followed her into the marquee, which was arranged with one long stall down each side. At one, cheap toys, sweets, and very innocent refreshments were to be sold; the Sunday-school girls stood behind it, presided over by the housekeeper from the Hall. Down the other side was a stall loaded with the usual display of mats, dolls, crochet-shawls, and tatting antimacassars, with here and there a gypsy-table or cushion mounted with wool-work, and a host of useful trifles, which were expected to fetch far more than their intrinsic value. But the custom of former years, when the sale had been chiefly for the village-people, was not forgotten; and one end was piled up with underclothing and children’s frocks and a quantity of cheap crockery and ironmongery, the contributions of Beaconsburgh tradesmen. At this, decidedly the least interesting corner of the whole bazaar, Miss Reade asked me if I would mind standing. “We chose this part for you, because you said you would like to have plenty to do; and we know you are patient. And I assure you the old women from the village will give you lots of occupation; they always want to turn over everything in the place and buy what they require for nothing.” I think I would rather have sold some pretty things too; but of course somebody must sell the ugly ones, and I really wanted to be useful; so I looked carefully over the things under my charge and examined the price-tickets, which I thought was a business-like way of going to work, when Laurence at last strolled in and came up to me. He shook hands with a loving pressure, but he only said-- “How do you do, Miss Christie? They expected you earlier.” And I felt so much chilled by the commonplace words and the “Miss Christie” that I could scarcely answer. I had not expected him to say “Violet” before everybody, as he had done when we walked home on the previous night; but he need not have used my prim surname at all. But, as he stooped to push under the stall a box that was sticking out, he said, in a very low voice-- “I must speak to you presently. You must make some excuse to get away, and I’ll watch you and meet you. I have some bad news--at least, I don’t know whether you will think it bad news.” His whisper got so gruff during those last words that I longed to kneel down on the ground by him and put my arms round his neck and tell him not to mind, whatever it was; but I could only say softly, as I bent over a bundle of night-caps-- “Of course I shall think it bad if you do.” And he just glanced up with a look that made me hold my breath and almost forget where I was, and his lips touched my frock as he rose, and I knew that the bad news was still not so bad as it might be.