Now Arabella was not a person of quick perceptions. She was imaginative, she was inquisitive, she had a romantic side which had very nearly been the ruin of her at the responsible age of thirty-two. Like the parent whom she so strongly resembled in her undiscerning nature and easygoing temperament, she was sufficiently credulous, weak, and unwise in her generation. On the other hand, she was by no means without her father's merits. She had the same talent for affection, the same positive genius for uncommon gratitude. She could never make light of a good turn, not even in her own mind; nor out of her own mouth could she make too much of one. In the family circle she had been very silent and subdued during these last days, but to Missy in private she had opened a contrite and a very grateful heart more times than the other had liked to listen. Vague doubts and suspicions of Missy she had entertained in the beginning; she might have them still; nay, they might well be stronger than ever, after yesterday. But one thing was now certain concerning these shy misgivings; they might rise to the mind, but they would never again pass the lips. No matter what Missy did or said, henceforth, Arabella would shield her with all the ingenuity at her command: which was not a little: only it was sometimes hindered by a certain slowness to perceive which frequently accompanies a constitutional readiness to imagine. So when Missy wanted her to shake hands because they were safe, Arabella looked perfectly blank. “How are we safe?” she asked. “What are we safe from?” “Why, from your friend.” “My friend? Ah!” She understood now. “Yes, he won't trouble us much more,” pursued Missy, sidling rhythmically from one foot to the other, while her eyes lit up the dairy. “O 'Bella, 'Bella, if you knew how I feel——” “Stop a moment,” said Arabella, white as the milk that she had spilled in her agitation; “is he—is he—dead?” “Dead? I wish he was. No, no; he's only in prison.” “In prison?” “Yes; run in the day before Christmas Eve—the day after I swep' him out o' this—no, the very day itself. See where you'd ha' been! 'Bella, 'Bella, let's drink his health in a pint of cream! It seems too good to be true.” But Arabella was grasping with both hands the shelf which supported the bowls of milk for creaming, and her face was drawn and wretched. “Don't, Missy!” she exclaimed with tears in her voice. “You wouldn't if you knew how sorry I am. What is he in prison for? What has he been doing?” “Writing a cheque he had no business to write and getting the money. That's what it was this time. But it isn't the first time; no, don't you believe it.” “I am so sorry,” repeated Arabella, covering her eyes. “But why? What for?” “For him. I—I thought I loved him.”