For strangers to be trespassing in her grandfather's fields was an event rare enough to excite her curiosity, and she was eager to know who the intrepid people might be. Somewhat to her surprise, she recognised in one of them the clergyman of the church five miles distant, to which they always drove every Sunday morning. It was not their own parish church, for with the rector of that Mr. Anstruther had quarrelled many years ago, not for any particular reason except that he was the clergyman of the parish and therefore to be kept at a distance. He was walking with a middle-aged little man of kindly aspect in whom Margaret recognised Dr. Knowles, the doctor who had lately bought old Dr. Carter's practice, and who had advised Miss Bidwell to go abroad for her eyesight. Though nothing was further from Margaret's mind than any intention of eaves-dropping, she could not help overhearing every word that was spoken as they passed the spot where she was standing. Mr. Summers, the clergyman, was speaking. "Yes, poor girl. It is a great shame. Her grandfather keeps her cooped up in that gloomy old place and never lets her see a soul. She has passed a lonely, unloved youth, for I am sure her grandfather has never shown her any affection, and I am equally sure that her dry stick of a governess did not, and, poor child, she has never been allowed to associate with any one else. She has never been allowed to have a friend or to go to a party or a dance in her life. And she must be nearly eighteen now. It really is a shame, for youth only comes once." "What a queer life! What a queer life for a girl to lead!" said the little doctor in jerky tones. "And is she contented with it?" "Yes, I think so; but, then, she has no idea what she is missing." With that reply the two voices passed out of hearing, leaving Margaret standing motionless under the tree. Of course it was she of whom they were talking. Was she, then, so greatly to be pitied? The idea was such a novel one that she could not take it in all at once, but gradually the truth of what they had said dawned with overwhelming force upon her mind. "A lonely, unloved youth." Yes, such a youth had certainly been hers. Of course her grandfather had never loved her. In the bewildered state of her mind she hardly knew whether she had always realised that fact, or whether she had taken his affection for her for granted. And he had allowed her no friends, no parties, no dances. Why had she thus been brought up aloof from every one? Certainly, as Mr. Summers had said in reply to Dr. Knowles' question as to whether she was content with her existence, she was content simply because she knew no better one. She had not realised before in what a very different fashion other girls were brought up. But now her eyes were open. That simple phrase, "She does not know, poor child, what she is missing," had told her more than many lengthy explanations could have done.