'You must not dismiss your escort here. I must see you through the enchanted dell--it is only a step--and then I shall return with a good conscience, like a worthy knight, having done my devoir honestly.' She looked down the dell, with a dark and painful glance, and then she said a few words of hesitating apology and acquiescence, and in a few minutes more they parted at the little wicket of Redman's Farm. They shook hands. He had a few pleasant, lingering words to say. She paused as he spoke at the other side of that little garden door. She seemed to like those lingering sentences--and hung upon them--and even smiled but in her eyes there was a vague and melancholy pleading--a wandering and unfathomable look that pained him. They shook hands again--it was the third time--and then she walked up the little gravel walk, hardly a dozen steps, and disappeared within the door of Redman's Farm, without turning another parting look on Lord Chelford, who remained at the little paling--expecting one, I think--to lift his hat and say one more parting word. She turned into the little drawing-room at the left, and, herself unseen, did take that last look, and saw him go up the road again towards Brandon. The shadows and mists of Redman's Dell anticipated night, and it was already deep twilight there. On the table there lay a letter which Margery had brought from the post-office. So Rachel lighted her candles and read it with very little interest, for it concerned a world towards which she had few yearnings. There was just one sentence which startled her attention: it said, 'We shall soon be at Knowlton--for Christmas, I suppose. It is growing too wintry for mamma near the sea, though I like it better in a high wind than in a calm; and a gale is such fun--such a romp. The Dulhamptons have arrived: the old Marchioness never appears till three o'clock, and only out in the carriage twice since they came. I can't say I very much admire Lady Constance, though she is to be Chelford's wife. She has fine eyes--and I think no other good point--much too dark for my taste--but they say clever;' and not another word was there on this subject. 'Lady Constance! arranged, I suppose, by Lady Chelford--no great dot--and an unamiable family--an odious family--nothing to recommend her but her rank.' So ruminated Rachel Lake as she looked out on her shadowy garden, and tapped a little feverish tattoo with her finger on the window pane; and she meditated a great while, trying to bring back distinctly her recollection of Lady Constance, and also vaguely conjecturing who had arranged the marriage, and how it had come about. 'Chelford cannot like her. It is all Lady Chelford's doing. Can I have mistaken the name?' But no. Nothing could be more perfectly distinct than 'Chelford,' traced in her fair correspondent's very legible hand.