"Come along," murmurs Philip, whose long strides are not easy to keep pace with. They walk more slowly when out of sight. Oh, the delightful dawdle back through the vague shadows of evening in sweetly scented lanes! How merrily she prattles with charming ingenuousness, while he watches her expressive features, a new strange thrill at his heart. What if on this summer holiday, among the clover and the daisies, he has discovered the one spotless soul of his life--a fresh, unsophisticated creature of Nature's noblest and purest art! At last they are in sight of the old farmhouse which Eleanor calls home. It is a picturesque spot, and Philip stops admiringly to take in the beauty of the rural scene. "So you live there in that quiet abode?" he said thoughtfully. "Yes. I am sorry to-day is over. It has not only been a holiday for the children, but half the village. The labourers are to have a dinner to-night and----" She paused. The labourers and the children are so far from her mind at this moment. "I shall see you again," he whispers. "Where and when?" asks Eleanor, feigning surprise. "To-morrow in this cornfield on our left. I shall walk past." "Like Boaz, and Ruth will be gleaning," she replies coyly. "What will Boaz do?" he murmurs. Eleanor lowers her eyes, and interlaces her fingers. "I know," she replies confidently. In the dim light Philip fancies that Eleanor is weaving some strange witchcraft. He is drawn involuntarily nearer and snatching her hand detains it a moment in both his. She is more beautiful than ever now in the dim solitude of the deserted road. The simplicity of her daily routine in the country farmhouse appeals to this man of the world, who yearns for something different, something better in his aimless, empty life--aimless because he has no one to work for, empty because there is no one to love. Eleanor's gentle presence in the gathering gloom quickens his imagination. A picture wonderful and hitherto undreamed rises like a sudden mirage before Philip's eyes. He seems lost in contemplation. "I have found her at last," he says, speaking his thoughts aloud. "Who?" asks Eleanor under her breath. "The Ideal Woman!" he replies. The girl looks perplexed--she does not understand the phrase. New Women and rational costumes have not yet penetrated to the depths of Copthorne, so their counter-poising ideal is to her an unknown quantity. Eleanor's ignorance of modernity constitutes a special charm in his eyes. How sweet a privilege to build up this uncultured soul, to mould her impressionable spirit! Philip is enamoured of the idea, he sees such vast possibilities stretching out before him. Eleanor differed so widely from the women of his set. Perhaps the weaker sex are made variously that the mind of desultory man, studious of change, and pleased with novelty, may be indulged. "How long have we known each other?" he asks. "About three hours," she answers promptly.