‘If I had thought of it, I wouldn’t have gone to see Wellfield to-night. I would have come and sat with you, my dear. Are you cold, Nita? What’s the matter? Where’s your little red shawl? and why don’t you have a fire?’ ‘I think it is rather chilly this evening,’ said Nita, letting him fold the little shawl round her shoulders. ‘Autumn will soon be here; and then a day in Lancashire without sun is always cold, no matter what the time of the year may be.’ ‘So it seems,’ replied John, who had gone on his knees before the grate, and removing a bowl filled with peacock’s feathers, disclosed what is known, in Lancashire at any rate, as ‘a cold fire,’ laid ready in the grate. ‘Where are the matches?’ he asked, finding them. He struck one, watched the flame, and then came and sat down beside Nita. ‘I will stay till it has burned up,’ said he. ‘Nothing is more cheerful than a good fire, and nothing more dismal than one just struggling into existence.’ ‘How kind you are, John,’ said Nita, looking up at him gratefully. ‘Pooh! Who would be otherwise to such a desolate-looking little person as you are? I suppose your father will come by the ten o’clock train?’ ‘I expect so. Oh, how nice that blaze is! I shall be quite happy now, with this novel. It is one of those which you brought me from London.’ ‘Which I understood you were not going to read.’ ‘Oh, but I am. I am very much interested in it; and—don’t you think Mr. Wellfield will be expecting you? _He_ will be lonely in his new house.’ ‘It will do him no harm if he is. But I see you want me to be off. Now, look here, Nita, don’t fret; there’s nothing in this life worth fretting about.’ ‘People fret because they can’t help it, not because things are worth it or not worth it,’ said Nita, wearily. ‘Good-night! Thank you for coming to cheer me up.’ ‘Good-night,’ said John, kindly and gravely; and he stooped and touched her forehead with his lips. Nita smiled faintly. ‘That is only for Christmas Days and birthdays,’ said she. ‘Three a year, John; so the next one is forfeited.’ ‘How do I know where we may both be when the next one falls due?’ he replied, with a look in his eyes and a line upon his brow which she did not quite understand. ‘Well good-night!’ [Illustration] CHAPTER X. INDIAN SUMMER. JEROME was not without visitors when he was fairly established at Monk’s Gate. John Leyburn frequently found his way down there, and so did Father Somerville, and in him Wellfield found his most congenial companion. They formed a strange trio, for the three were often there together.