What would Eleanor's mother say could she see her precious heirloom donned hastily on this busy market morning, to adorn her daughter's neck for a stroll through the fields! It is sacrilege surely, but the prize! The girl closes the cupboard noiselessly, creeping away like a criminal out into the glaring day. Her eyes dance, her cheeks are flushed, and her hair escaping (as if by accident) from its neat braids, waves in dainty tendrils round her ears. "I _am_ beautiful," she murmurs to herself, "why not? Stranger things have happened--Eleanor Roche, the wife of a rich man--oh!" The last is a gasp of hitherto unexpressed surprise at the audacity of her day dreams. Philip is waiting by the barley field, watching for her. As she sees him she slackens her steps, not wishing to appear over anxious for the rendezvous. He advances eagerly, grasps her hands, and devours her with his eyes. "So we meet again, Eleanor," he whispers. "I _must_ call you Eleanor; you don't mind?" A bold answer that inwardly makes her tremble enters the girl's head. Why not place herself on an equality with him at once? She nerves herself to reply: "Not if I may call you Philip?" A look of amused surprise flits over Mr. Roche's features. What a naive, childlike manner Eleanor possesses! "Of course," he replies, pulling the small hand through his arm, and turning out of the public thoroughfare. "I wonder what you think of me?" asks Eleanor unhesitatingly. The great sparkling eyes are raised to his with genuine curiosity in their depths. She is not seeking a compliment; far from it, she really wants to know, and is waiting for the truth. He looks from the blue eyes of the girl to the little blue bird's-eye growing on a bank of clover. She pauses while he stoops to gather the tiny flower. "You see this," he says. "Yes." "It is only a field blossom blooming unnoticed in this sweet country atmosphere, yet to me a thousand times fairer than the exotics and hot-house plants which naturally demand admiration. I love this little flower," pressing the tender blue to his lips, "because it is wild and untrained. It appeals to me. It is like you, Eleanor!" A flush of offence arises to her cheeks. "Wild!" "Untrained!" the words sting Miss Grebby's pride. "I did not think you would compare me to a _weed_!" she retorts, tossing her head proudly. But Philip will not see he has offended, and continues in the same strain. "Don't despise the weeds, Eleanor; they were placed in their uncultivated beds by Nature's hand, and have as much right to be called beautiful as any other creation." He speaks to her authoritatively, and she looks at his strong, masterful expression with a gradual sense of awe. "I should not have thought you would care for flowers." "Why not? Does it seem childish in your eyes to soliloquise over a wayside 'weed,' as you call it?" His questions perplex her. She is silent.