‘Got another situation, and a most miserable one. Left it, and was found in direst poverty by the person I got to hunt her up. Her delight at my proposal to her to live with Miss Moore was unbounded. It will, at all events, be a blessing to get her out of that stuffy room I found her in. She looked so out of place in it. You know what a nice-looking woman she was, and so well got up always. But yesterday ... I advanced her a little of her salary at once—to—to get anything she might want, you know; and I expect that next week she will come to the Cottage.’ The Rector has heard this rather halting recital straight through without comment. Now he lifts his eyes. ‘You are a good fellow, Wyndham,’ says he slowly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Barry, not that,’ says Wyndham impatiently. ‘I expect I’m about the most grudging devil on earth. And if you think I enjoy helping this girl, or Miss Manning, or anyone else, you make a mistake. What I really want is to be left alone, to run my life on my own rails without the worry of being crossed or stopped by passengers, or goods, or extras.’ ‘Ah, we can none of us hope for that,’ says the Rector. ‘The most selfish of us have to live, not only for ourselves, but for others. You spoke of having seen Miss Manning yesterday. Have you—told the young lady in there of her coming?’ ‘Not yet. I had no time, indeed. When I found your daughter there, I felt I ought to take her away as soon as possible, simply because you did not know how matters were, and I had a hint—as to gossip. I must go back now, however, and tell her before my train leaves.’ ‘You have little time,’ says the Rector, glancing at his watch. ‘Go. Make haste.’ ‘There is one thing more,’ says Wyndham quickly, ‘and I think you should hear it. She—I don’t know anything for certain—but I feel almost sure that the poor girl is illegitimate. And, of course, you—’ ‘I?’ ‘You would not like an acquaintance between her and your daughters?’ ‘You mistake me there,’ says the Rector; ‘a misfortune is not a fault. And the fact that this poor girl has been the victim of others’ vices should not be allowed to militate against her.’ ‘Hardly a fact,’ says Wyndham quickly. ‘I speak only from very uncertain data, and yet—’ ‘I know. It seems, unhappily, only too likely, however. There, go; you have little time.’ CHAPTER XXVIII. ‘Weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow, I have enough on even, and on morrow.’ Ella is inside, waiting for him, when he returns. She has heard his step, and has opened the little gate to let him in. ‘Oh, you have come! How long you have been! I thought you would never come!’ cries she, in her agitation. Then, frightened at her own impatience: ‘I—I thought perhaps you had gone away—and forgotten.’ ‘There were certain things that had to be said to Mr. Barry,’ says Wyndham. He slams the gate carelessly behind him, but Ella, passing rapidly by him, turns the key in the lock.