‘I am sure of that,’ says Wyndham heartily. ‘I am certain I can give her into your hands in all safety. I know very little of her, but she seems a good girl, not altogether tractable, perhaps, but I hope you will be able to get on with her. If, however, the dulness, the enforced solitude, becomes too much for you, you must let me know.’ ‘I shall never have to let you know that,’ says Miss Manning, in a low, tremulous tone. ‘A home in the country, a young companion, a garden to tend—for long and very sad years I have dreamt of such things, but never with a hope of seeing them. And now, if I have seemed poor in my thanks, Paul—’ She breaks off, turning her head aside. ‘Yes, yes; I understand,’ says Wyndham hurriedly, dreading, yet feeling very tenderly towards her emotion. Once again he congratulates himself on having thought of this sweet woman in his difficulty. ‘And for myself,’ says she, calmly now again, ‘I should never like to stir from this lovely garden.’ They are walking by one of the paths bordered with flowers. ‘I have been so long accustomed to solitude that, like my pupil, I shrink from breaking it. To see no one but her and’—delicately—‘you occasionally, I hope, is all I ask.’ ‘You may perhaps have to see the Barrys now and then—the Rector’s people. They live over the way,’ says Wyndham, pointing towards where the Rectory trees can be seen. ‘I found the last time I was here that Susan, the eldest girl, had come in, or been brought in here by Miss Moore, so that there is already a slight acquaintance; and with girls,’ says the barrister, somewhat contemptuously, ‘that means an immediate, if not altogether undying, friendship.’ ‘Yes,’ says Miss Manning. She feels a faint surprise. ‘It is not so much, then, that she does not desire to know people, as that she refuses to stir out of this place?’ ‘That is how I take it. I wanted her very much to move about, to let herself be known. Honestly’—colouring slightly—‘it is rather awkward for me to have a tenant so very mysterious as she seems bent on being. I urged her to declare herself at once as my tenant and wait events; but she seemed so terrified at the idea of leaving these four walls that I gave up the argument. Perhaps you may bring her to reason, or perhaps the Rector and his youngsters may have the desired effect of putting an end to this morbidity. By-the-by, I am going over to the Rectory after I have introduced you to—’ ‘Ella’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he substitutes ‘Miss Moore’ in time. The very near slip renders him thoughtful for a moment or two. Why should he have called her Ella? Had he ever thought of her as Ella? Most positively never. He is so absorbed in his introspection that he fails to see a slight, timid figure coming down the steps of the Cottage. Miss Manning touches his arm. ‘Is this Miss Moore?’ cries she, in an excited whisper. ‘Oh, what a charming face!’