"I shall never believe they are gone until they are back again, I am sure," said Mrs Miles, coming into the porch with tearful eyes. "It is three years since the Vicar slept out of the house, and that was to preach, and it does seem so unnatural he should have left his sermon book behind him. But there is really one good thing about it, and that is that we can have the kitchen chimney swept quite comfortably. Marion my dear, you'll not mind cold--" But Marion had escaped. She wanted some vent for the excitement which was apt to rise even to the verge of pain in its passionate impetuosity. The little shrubbery path was as oppressive to her as the four walls of the house, and almost mechanically she opened the gate and crossed the road towards the Hardlands meadows. The Squire and Bessie were just starting for a ride when Marion reached the house, and Winifred was with them at the door, indulging the pony and the roan cob with lumps of sugar. Bessie was a pretty bright-eyed girl of sixteen, a good deal spoilt by her father, whose special pride it was that she displayed a keener talent for housekeeping than Winifred had ever developed, and who, in consequence, aided and abetted her attempts to gain the upper hand in that department. The Squire was in high good-humour over the result of his hay-making, and it was not lessened by the triumph with which he compared his own success with the less favourable crop secured on the Vicar's glebe. "Good morning, Marion, good morning," he began in his loud hearty voice, "what does your father say now to my waiting a good fortnight after my neighbours? Tell him to come up and have a look at the ricks, if he's not convinced yet. I suppose he was wanting to jump with Master Anthony's theories, eh? He'll lead you all a pretty dance yet, if you don't look out." "That's a shame, papa," said Bessie, promptly, "for Anthony was not at home when they cut their hay at the Vicarage." "I don't know, I don't know, I'm sure. Anthony has a finger in every pie that I can see. Where's he off now? Who's this old Tregennas? Well, Bessie, you and I had better be jogging, or Winifred's fine cook will be spoiling the luncheon, and swearing it's our fault."