“Horatio,” began Madam Tutterville with great solemnity. They had reached the shade of the avenue and the lady, while leaning affectionately on the rector’s arm, had maintained up to this an unwonted silence—“Horatio,” said she, “you will no doubt scarcely credit it, but, without vanity, I may say that this has been a day of special revelation between myself and the Lord. I have observed. I have noted. There are certain signs. A woman’s eye, my dear sir, is quick in these matters. In fact, Horatio, I really believe David is in love with Ellinor.” “My dear Sophia, you do not say so!” “Indeed, doctor, but I do. Ah, you smile, you shake your head! Well, well, it would be strange, I grant, and something contradictious of fate that this should come to pass at last, which we have both so much desired, when one may say it would only seem now but an added complication. But (pray let me finish, Horatio), who are we that we should doubt the power of Providence? ‘He can make the wilderness blossom like the rose.’” “A beautiful text, Sophia, and quoted with commendable accuracy! Nevertheless,” returned the parson, “I would most earnestly advise you not to confide these very extraordinary suppositions of yours to any other human being. I have so high an opinion of your acumen, Madam Tutterville, and you have so brilliantly acquitted yourself to-day, that it would be a thousand pities to spoil so bright a record by these wild—these altogether feminine imaginings.” The poor lady acquiesced with a chastened air. When her Horatio adopted this decisive tone her submission was unqualified. She did not speak again till they had reached the mellow mossy wall of the rectory orchard. Then she hazarded, in a small voice, that she dared say Dr. Tutterville would only laugh at her again, but she could not rest easy in her conscience without telling him that the more she had thought of the matter lately, and especially since her recent interview with Ellinor, the more the conviction had grown in her mind that the poor, pretty dear had been the victim of some base conspiracy. “That Margery!... not to speak of Lady Lochore——” The rector halted, seized his wife by both hands, and exclaimed in a tone of genial admiration that brought back with a leap all her self-esteem: “Sophia, there speaks your wise head! And,” he added, pressing the hands he held: “there speaks my Sophia’s kind heart.” And arm-in-arm once more, and both smiling, they crossed the peaceful threshold of their home. CHAPTER III NOT WORDS, BUT HANDS MEETING ... Indeed I love thee: come Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one: Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me. —TENNYSON (_The Princess_).