The clergyman smiled, and spoke at once of the lessons he had received from the basketmaker. “I have his permission,” he said in conclusion, “to confide the service he rendered me, the intimacy that has sprung up between us, but to you alone,--not a word to your guests. When you have once seen him, you will understand why an eccentric man, who has known better days, would shrink from the impertinent curiosity of idle customers. Contented with his humble livelihood, he asks but liberty and repose.” “That I already comprehend,” said Lady Montfort, half sighing, half smiling. “But my curiosity shall not molest him, and when I visit the village, I will pass by his cottage.” “Nay, my dear Lady Montfort, that would be to refuse the favour I am about to ask, which is that you would come with me to that very cottage. It would so please him.” “Please him! why?” “Because this poor man has a young female grandchild, and he is so anxious that you should see and be kind to her, and because, too, he seems most anxious to remain in his present residence. The cottage, of course, belongs to Lord Montfort, and is let to him by the bailiff, and if you deign to feel interest in him, his tenure is safe.” Lady Montfort looked down, and coloured. She thought, perhaps, how false a security her protection, and how slight an influence her interest would be; but she did not say so. George went on; and so eloquently, and so touchingly did he describe both grandsire and grandchild, so skilfully did he intimate the mystery which hung over them, that Lady Montfort became much moved by his narrative; and willingly promised to accompany him across the park to the basketmaker’s cottage the first opportunity. But when one has sixty guests in one’s house, one has to wait for an opportunity to escape from them unremarked. And the opportunity, in fact, did not come for many days; not till the party broke up, save one or two dowager she-cousins who “gave no trouble,” and one or two bachelor he-cousins whom my lord retained to consummate the slaughter of pheasants, and play at billiards in the dreary intervals between sunset and dinner, dinner and bedtime. Then one cheerful frosty noon George Morley and his fair cousin walked boldly _en evidence_, before the prying ghostly windows, across the broad gravel walks; gained the secluded shrubbery, the solitary deeps of park-land; skirted the wide sheet of water, and, passing through a private wicket in the paling, suddenly came upon the patch of osier-ground and humble garden, which were backed by the basketmaker’s cottage. As they entered those lowly precincts a child’s laugh was borne to their ears,--a child’s silvery, musical, mirthful laugh; it was long since the great lady had heard a laugh like that,--a happy child’s natural laugh. She paused and listened with a strange pleasure. “Yes,” whispered George Morley, “stop--and hush! there they are.”