"Of sorts," admitted Morna, whose spoken English was by no means undefiled. But it turned out to have been a mathematical degree; and when, under sympathetic pressure, Morna vouchsafed particulars, even Rachel knew enough to appreciate the honors which the vicar's wife had won. What was more difficult to understand was how so young a woman of such distinguished attainments could be content to hide her light under the bushel of a country vicarage; and Rachel could not resist some expression of her wonderment on that point. "Did you do nothing with it all," she asked, "before you married?" "No," said Morna; "you see, I got engaged in the middle of it, and the week after the lists came out we were married." "What a career to have given up!" "I would give it up again," said Morna, with a warmer blush; and Rachel was left with a deeper envy. "I am afraid we shall have nothing in common," sighed Mrs. Steel, as they neared the house. "I have no education worthy the name." Morna waxed all but indignant at the implication; she had a morbid horror of being considered a "blue-stocking," which she revealed with much girlish naïveté and unconscious simplicity of sentiment and praise. She was not so narrow as all that; she had had enough of learning; she had forgotten all that she had learnt; any dolt could be crammed to pass examinations. On the contrary, she was quite sure they would have heaps in common; for example, she was longing for some one to bicycle with; her husband seldom had the time, and he did not care for her to go quite alone in the country roads. "But I don't bicycle," said Mrs. Steel, shaking her head rather sadly. "Ah, I forgot! People who ride and drive never do." And it was Morna's turn to sigh. "No, I should like it; but I have never tried." "I'll teach you!" cried Morna at once. "What fun it will be!" "I should enjoy it, I know. But--" The sentence was abandoned--as was often the case in the subsequent intercourse between Rachel Steel and Morna Woodgate. From the beginning, Rachel was apt to be more off her guard with Morna than with any one whom she had met during the last six months; and, from the beginning, she was continually remembering and stopping herself in a manner that would have irritated Morna in anybody else. But then--yet again, from the beginning--these two were natural and immediate friends. "You must learn," urged Morna, when she had waited some time for the sentence which had but begun. "There are people who scorn it--or pretend to--but I am sure you are not one. It may not be the finest form of exercise, but wait till you fly down these hills with your feet on the rests! And then you are so independent; no horses to consider, no coachman to consult; only your own bones and your own self! The independence alone--" "May be the very thing for you, Mrs. Woodgate, but it wouldn't do for my wife!"