She was very plainly dressed, and wore a simple coarse straw hat, but there was an air of refinement about her which, before she opened her lips, told the new vicar that he was in the presence of one who had been born in a sphere of some culture. Not so her companion, who, though as well favoured by nature, was cast in quite another mould. Plump, peachy, and rounded of outline, she was a thorough specimen of the better class English cottage girl, spoiled by her parents, and imbued with a knowledge that she was the pretty girl of the place. "I am so much obliged--it was so good of you," stammered the heroine of the bog. "Not at all, my dear; don't mention it," said the vicar, in a quiet way that helped to put the discomfited maiden at her ease. "I see: gathering bog-flowers and went too far. For shame," he continued, loudly. "You, a county young lady, and not to know it was dangerous to go where the cotton rushes grow. You wanted some, eh? Yes, and left the basket out there--half full." "Oh, pray don't go--never mind the basket--it does not matter," faltered the girl; but the vicar was already stepping from tussock to tussock, ending by hooking up the basket with his stick, and pausing to pick some of the best silky topped rushes within his reach. "There," he said, returning the basket and its contents; "there are your cotton rushes--earth's fruit. I ought to scold you for behaving like a daughter of Eve, and trying to get what you ought not to touch." The girl crimsoned to the roots of her hair at the word Eve, and exchanged glances with her companion, who was standing before her, looking hot, frowning, and cross, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and her nose in the air, as if being scourged by the angry look directed at her by the young workman, who stood a few yards off scowling, with his hands thrust into the very bottoms of his pockets. "I did not think the bog was so treacherous," said the girl, stealing a look at the frank, manly face before her. "It looked so safe." "So do many things in this world, my dear; but you must not trust them any the more for their fair seeming." The girl started a little, and looked indignant at the familiar way in which she was addressed by so young a man--a perfect stranger. She had already tried to sting him in the bog with two or three furious darts from her bright eyes for daring to put his arms round her. In fact she had felt for a moment that she would rather sink into the earth than be touched like that, but she was helpless and had to resign herself to her fate. "Ah!" said the vicar, "you are looking angry at me for speaking in such a free way." "I--I indeed--I--" "Ah, my dear, I can read that pretty innocent face of yours like a book. There--there--don't blush so. We are strangers: well, let's be strangers no more. Let me introduce myself. I am Murray Selwood, your new parson, and you are--?" "Eve Pelly--Mrs Glaire's--"