“Christian!” she exclaimed, “I am sorry I did not know you.” They shook hands, and Molly hastened to introduce her sister's companion. “Mr. Farrar,” she said; “Mr. Vellacott.” The two men shook hands, and Christian was disappointed. The grip of Farrar's fingers was limp and almost nerveless, in striking contradiction to the promise of his honest face and well-set person. “Tea is ready,” said Molly somewhat hastily; “let us go in.” Hilda and her companion passed on in front while Molly and Christian followed them. The latter purposely lagged behind, and his companion found herself compelled to wait for him. “Look at the effect of the sunlight through the trees upon that water,” said he in a conversational way; “it is quite green, and almost transparent.” “Yes,” replied Molly, moving away tentatively, “we see most peculiar effects over the moat. The water is so very still and deep.” He raised his quiet eyes to her face, upon which the ready smile still lingered. As she met his gaze she raised her hand and pushed back a few truant wisps of hair which, curling forward like tendrils, tickled her cheek. It was a movement he soon learned to know. “Yes,” he said absently. He was wondering in an analytical way whether the action was habitual with her, or significant of embarrassment. At length he turned to follow her, but Molly had failed in her object; the others had passed out of earshot. “Tell me,” said Christian in a lowered voice, “who is he?” “He is the squire of St. Mary Eastern, six miles from here,” she replied; “very well off; very good to his mother, and in every way nice.” Christian tore off a small branch which would have touched his forehead had he walked on without stooping. He broke it into small pieces, and continued throwing up at intervals into the air a tiny stick, hitting it with his hand as they walked on. “And,” he said suggestively, “and--” “Yes, Christian,” she replied decisively, “they are engaged. Come, let us hurry; I always pour out the tea. I told you before, if you remember, that I was the only person in the house who did any work.” When Christian opened his eyes the following morning, the soft hum of insects fell on his ear instead of the roar of London traffic. Through the open window the southern air blew upon his face. Above the sound of busy wings the distant sea sang its low dirge. It was a living perspective of sound. The least rustle near at hand overpowered it, and yet it was always there--an unceasing throb to be felt as much as heard. Some acoustic formation of the land carried the noise, for the sea was eight miles away. It was very peaceful; for utter stillness is not peace. A room wherein an old clock ticks is infinitely more soothing than a noiseless chamber.