‘She only saw me in the tree,’ says the girl, with a voice that is now half sobbing. And then she thought you—that I—oh!’—more wretchedly still—‘I don’t know what she thought! But’—trembling—‘I wish I had never climbed into that tree.’ ‘Because she happened to see you? Never mind that. She’s got eyes in the back of her head; no one could escape her,’ says he, touched by her agitation. ‘I am not thinking of her,’ says Ella proudly, making a gesture that might almost be called imperious. ‘I am only vexed because you are angry with me about it. But’—eagerly—‘I never thought anyone would find me out, and I did so want to see what you—what’—quickly correcting herself and colouring faintly—‘you were all doing in the Rectory garden.’ ‘If you want so much, and so naturally,’ says he, ‘to see your fellow-people, why didn’t you accept Susan’s invitation? It would have prevented all this.’ ‘I know. But I couldn’t,’ says she, hanging her pretty head. ‘You know I tried it once, and it was only when I got back again here—here into this safe, safe place—that I knew how frightened I had been all the time. And you may remember how I fancied then, on my return, that I had seen——’ She stops as if unable to go on. ‘I know. I remember. But that was a mere hallucination, I am sure. You must try to conquer such absurd fears. Promise me you will try.’ ‘I will try,’ cries she impulsively. She holds out to him her hand, and he takes it. ‘I will indeed. You have been so good to me, that I ought to do something for you. But all the same’—shaking her head—‘I know you are vexed with me about this.’ ‘For your sake only. This abominable visit of my aunt’s, for example——’ ‘Yes; about the girl you——’ She stops and withdraws her hand. ‘I thought I had explained that,’ says he, with a laugh. ‘But what troubles me is the thought that you may be again annoyed in this way. Not by her; I shall see about that’—with force. ‘But there may be others. And of course your welfare is’—he checks himself—‘of some consequence to me.’ ‘Is it?’ She has grown cold too. ‘Your aunt’s welfare must be something to you as well.’ ‘Do you mean by that that you don’t think I am on your side?’ She lifts her heavy lids and looks at him. ‘You told me that my affairs were nothing to you—that they did not concern you in the smallest degree.’ ‘Was that—some time ago?’ ‘Yes. Almost at first.’ ‘Don’t you think it is a little vindictive to visit one’s former utterances upon one now?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Well, good-bye,’ says he quickly. He turns, wounded more than he could have believed it possible to be by a girl who is positively nothing to him. Nothing! he quite insists on this as he goes down the path. But now—what is this? Swift feet running after him; a small eager hand upon his arm.