“Silly Walter,” the girl said, “to frighten yourself and give Mr. Belward trouble.” “I didn’t think I’d be afraid,” protested the lad; “but when I looked over the ledge my head went round, and I felt sick--like with the channel.” Gaston had seen Alice Wingfield several times at church and in the village, and once when, with Lady Belward, he had returned the archdeacon’s call; but she had been away most of the time since his arrival. She had impressed him as a gentle, wise, elderly little creature, who appeared to live for others, and chiefly for her grandfather. She was not unusually pretty, nor yet young,--quite as old as himself,--and yet he wondered what it was that made her so interesting. He decided that it was the honesty of her nature, her beautiful thoroughness; and then he thought little more about her. But now he dropped into quiet, natural talk with her, as if they had known each other for years. But most women found that they dropped quickly into easy talk with him. That was because he had not learned the small gossip which varies little with a thousand people in the same circumstances. But he had a naive fresh sense, everything interested him, and he said what he thought with taste and tact, sometimes with wit, and always in that cheerful contemplative mood which influences women. Some of his sayings were so startling and heretical that they had gone the rounds, and certain crisp words out of the argot of the North were used by women who wished to be chic and amusing. Not quite certain why he stayed, but talking on reflectively, Gaston at last said: “You will be coming to us to-night, of course? We are having a barbecue of some kind.” “Yes, I hope so; though my grandfather does not much care to have me go.” “I suppose it is dull for him.” “I am not sure it is that.” “No? What then?” She shook her head. “The affair is in your honour, Mr. Belward, isn’t it? “Does that answer my question?” he asked genially. She blushed. “No, no, no! That is not what I meant.” “I was unfair. Yes, I believe the matter does take that colour; though why, I don’t know.” She looked at him with simple earnestness. “You ought to be proud of it; and you ought to be glad of such a high position where you can do so much good, if you will.” He smiled, and ran his hand down his horse’s leg musingly before he replied: “I’ve not thought much of doing good, I tell you frankly. I wasn’t brought up to think about it; I don’t know that I ever did any good in my life. I supposed it was only missionaries and women who did that sort of thing.” “But you wrong yourself. You have done good in this village. Why, we all have talked of it; and though it wasn’t done in the usual way--rather irregularly--still it was doing good.” He looked down at her astonished. “Well, here’s a pretty libel! Doing good ‘irregularly’? Why, where have I done good at all?”