In the Rector's study the labourer was speaking, standing shufflingly on the margin of the Turkey carpet. The Rector listened, his hand on an open folio where fat infants peered through the ornamental initials. "And so I come straight up to you, Sir, me being a father and you the same, Sir, for all the difference betwixt our ways in life. Says I to myself, says I, and bitter hard I feels it too, I says: 'George,' says I, 'you've got a daughter as begun that way, not a doubt of it--holdin' of hands and sittin' close alongside, and you know what's come to her!'" The Rector shivered at the implication. "Then I says, says I: 'Like as not the Rector won't thank you for interferin'. Least said soonest mended,' says I." "I'm very much obliged to you," said the Rector difficultly, and his hand shook on Ambrosius's yellow page. "You see, Sir," the man's tone held all that deferent apology that truth telling demands, "gells is gells, be they never so up in the world, all the world over, bless their hearts; and young men is young men, d--n them, asking your pardon, Sir, I'm sure, but the word slipped out. And I shouldn't ha' been easy if anything had have gone wrong with Miss, God bless her, all along of the want of a word in season. Asking your pardon, Sir, but even young ladies is flesh and blood, when it comes to the point. Ain't they now?" he ended appealingly. The Rector spoke with an obvious effort, got his hand off the page and closed the folio. "You've done quite right, George," he said, "and I'm greatly obliged to you. Only I do ask you to keep this to yourself. You wouldn't have liked it if people had heard a thing like that about your Ruby before--I mean when she was at home." He replaced the two folios on the shelf. "Not me, Sir," George answered. "I'm mum, I do assure you, Sir. And if I might make so bold, you just pop on your hat and step acrost directly minute. There's that little hole back of the shed what I told you of. You ain't only got to pop your reverend eye to that there, and you'll see for yourself as I ain't give tongue for no dragged scent." "Thank you, George," said the Rector, "I will. Good morning. God bless you." The formula came glibly, but it was from the lips only that it came. Lizzie--his white innocent Lily-girl! In a shed--a man, a stranger, holding her hand, his arm around her, his eyes--his lips perhaps, daring-- The Rector was half way down his garden drive. "Your heart-line," Vernon was saying, "it's a little difficult. You will be deeply beloved." To have one's fortune told is disquieting. To keep silence during the telling deepens the disquiet curiously. It seemed good to Betty to laugh. "Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor," she said, "which am I going to marry, kind gipsy?"