There was another look between them, always with a laugh in it, as she stepped out of the open window, with a book in her hand, a look which repeated, “What can it be, now?” with the same amusement as at first, but with more surprise. Bee made a circuit round the lawn with her book, one finger shut in it to mark the place; looking at the flowers, as one does who knows every plant individually, and notes each bud that is opening, and which are about to fall. She calculated within herself how long the dahlias would last, and that the Gloire de Dijon roses must be cut to-morrow, as she pursued her way towards the walnut tree, under which she meant to place herself. But Bee had not been there many minutes before she felt a little shiver creep over her. It was getting rather cold in this late October to sit out of doors, when the sun was already off the garden, and she had, as girls say, “nothing on.” She got up again, and made her way round to a garden bench which was set against the wall of the house, at the spot where the sunshine lasted longest. There was still a level ray of ruddy light pouring on that seat, and Bee forgot, or rather never thought, that it was close to the drawing-room window. Her mind was not much exercised about Mrs. Chichester’s secret, which probably concerned the mothers and babies of the parish, and which she certainly had no curiosity to hear. Besides, no doubt, the visitor had told by this time all the private details there were to tell. Bee sat down upon the bench, taking no precautions to disguise the sound of her footsteps, and opened her book. She was not an enthusiastic student, though she liked a novel as well as anyone; but her eyes strayed from it to the great width of the horizon in front of her, and the ruddy glory in the west, in which was just about to disappear that last long golden ray of the sun. Then she heard a low cry--an exclamation, stifled, yet full of horror. Was it mamma? What could the clergywoman be saying to bring from mamma’s lips such a cry? Bee--I cannot blame her--pricked up her ears. Mrs. Kingsward was not strong enough to be disturbed by horrors with which she had nothing to do. “Oh, I cannot believe it; I cannot believe it!” she said. “But,” said the other voice, with that emphasis at which Bee had laughed so often, “I can assure you it is true. I saw him myself shaking hands with the woman at the station. I might not have believed Miss Tatham’s story, but I saw with my own eyes that it was Mr. Leigh. I had met him at Sir Thomas’s the year before--when he was still in deep mourning for his wife, you know.” “Mr. Leigh! So it was something about Aubrey! Then it was Bee’s business still more than her mother’s, and she listened without any further thought.