Nora was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Chattaway's daughter, Octave. She had come to the farm, and, attracted by the sound of voices in the dairy, made her way to it. Miss Chattaway had taken it into her head lately to be friendly, to honour the farm with frequent visits. Mrs. Ryle neither encouraged nor repulsed her. She was civilly indifferent: but the young lady chose to take that as a welcome. Nora did not show her much greater favour than she was in the habit of showing her father. She bent her head over her butter-board, as if unaware that any one had entered. George removed his hat which he had been wearing, as she stepped on to the cold floor of the dairy, and took the hand held out to him. "Who would have thought of seeing you at home at this hour?" she exclaimed, in the winning manner which she could put on at times, and always did put on for George Ryle. "And in Nora's dairy, watching her make up the butter!" he answered, laughing. "The fact is, I have an appointment with a gentleman this morning, and he is keeping me waiting, and making me angry. I can't spare the time." "You look angry!" exclaimed Octave, laughing at him. "Looks go for nothing," returned George. "Is your harvest nearly in?" "If this fine weather only lasts four or five days longer, it will be all in. We have had a glorious harvest this year. I hope every one's as thankful as I am." "You have some especial cause for thankfulness?" she observed. "I have." She had spoken lightly, and was struck by the strangely earnest answer. George could have said that but for that harvest they might not quite so soon have discharged her father's debt. "When shall you hold your harvest home?" "Next Thursday; this day week," replied George. "Will you come to it?" "Thank you," said Octave. "Yes, I will." Had it been to save his life, George Ryle could not have helped the surprise in his eyes, as he turned them on Octave Chattaway. He had asked the question in the careless gaiety of the moment; really not intending it as an invitation. Had he proffered it in all earnestness, he never would have supposed it one to be accepted by Octave. Mr. Chattaway's family were not in the habit of visiting at Trevlyn Farm. "In for a penny, in for a pound," thought George. "I don't know what Mrs. Ryle will say to this; but if _she_ comes, some of the rest shall come also." It almost seemed as if Octave had divined part of his thoughts. "I must ask my aunt Ryle whether she will have me. By way of bribe, I shall tell her that I delight in harvest-homes." "We must have you all," said George. "Your sisters and Maude. Treve will be home I expect, and the Apperleys will be here." "Who else?" asked Octave. "But I don't know about my sisters and Maude." "Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. They and the Apperleys always come." "Our starched old parson!" uttered Octave. "He is not a favourite with us at the Hold." "I think he is with your mother."