Mr. Kettle met her with a fatherly kiss, telling her she looked bonnier than ever, and that there was nothing to compare with an English rose-bud. Maria clasped her in her arms. Ella took her bonnet off and sat down with them in the bow-windowed parlour open to the summer breeze, and for some time it was hard to say whether she or Maria had the more questions to ask and answer. Then the vicar began, as a matter of course, about the shortcomings in the parish during his absence, especially about the churchwardens' difficulties with Pennithorne--the temporary parson. That gentleman had persisted in having two big candlesticks on the altar where no such articles had ever been seen before, and had attempted to establish a daily service, which had proved to be an ignominious failure, together with other changes and innovations that were more open to objection. Ella confirmed it all, and the vicar worked himself into a fume. "Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed, "I'd never have gone away had I known. Who was to suspect that meek-looking young jackanapes, with his gold-rimmed spectacles, had so much mischief in him? He looked as mild as new milk. And now, my dear, what about that strange affair concerning Katherine Keen?" resumed the vicar, after a pause. "Your letter to us, describing it, was hardly--hardly credible." "I can quite believe that it must have seemed so to you," replied Ella. "Well, child, just go over it now quietly." The light died out of Ella's eyes, and her face saddened. But she complied with the request, not dwelling very minutely upon the particulars. The vicar and Maria listened to her in silence. "It is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of," cried the vicar, impulsively, when it was over. "Locked up in her room, and disappeared! Is there a trap-door in the floor?" Ella shook her head. "The waxed boards of the room are all sound and firm." "And she could not have come out of her room and got out of the house, you say?" "No. It was not possible. She had a bad headache, as I tell you, and I told her she had better go to bed; that was about nine o'clock. While she was folding up the child's petticoat she had been sewing at, Aaron came into the room to say that Uncle Gilbert was asking for me. Katherine lighted both the bed candles, which were on a tray outside, and we left the room together. I ran into my own room and caught up my prayer-book, for sometimes my uncle lets me read the evening psalms to him. Katherine was going into her room as I ran out; she wished me goodnight, went in, and locked the door." "Locked it!" exclaimed the vicar. "A bad habit to sleep with the door locked. Suppose a fire broke out!"