Lena Lakeman, haunting the green landscape like an uneasy spirit, watched Mrs. Vincent and Hannah go into the church. "I wonder what little Margaret does with her morning when she's left alone?" she thought, as she went through the gate that led across the fields, and played about the field searching for clover, counting the blades in a tuft of grass, or resting beneath the outreaching hedge of honeysuckle like a lizard. From sheer sleepiness, she stayed there almost without moving till presently she heard the country voices in church singing "Oh, be joyful in the Lord all ye lands." She opened her eyes then and looked at the beauty round her. The land did rejoice, she thought—in the summer time. If God would only let it last His people would rejoice all the year round; but how could they, how could they be religious, when the climate was bad? Perhaps one reason why Roman Catholics took their religions so closely into their lives was that it had generated in those places that were filled with sunshine.

The voices had ceased. She tried to remember the order of the prayers, so that she might know how much longer the worshippers had to stay, but she could not hear with sufficient distinctness to recognize the words. Suddenly there was the sound of wheels coming towards the church and the road that led to the farm. She sat up and listened, then knelt and looked through the hedge till she saw, going along at a brisk pace, a fat gray pony and a little dog-cart, in which sat a spruce young man with a handkerchief looking out of his pocket, a flower in his button-hole, and a bowler hat stuck jauntily on his head.

"It's Mr. Garratt," she exclaimed, "he's going to see Margaret; they will have a happy time together while the others are at church." She watched the dog-cart vanish in the distance, then stole along the field, keeping close to the hedge lest she should be observed from the farm. And suddenly a thought struck her. "Margaret will take him to her wood," she said to herself; "presently I should find them together, but they mustn't see me coming."

She crossed the field twenty minutes later, keeping close to the hedge so as not to be seen, and made for the high ground. On the side of the hill a young copse grew, reaching up to the great trees that Margaret called her cathedral; the undergrowth of bracken and briar went up with it and formed a green wall round the summit. Between the columns of the cathedral, and over the green wall, the sweet country-side could be seen stretching long miles away to the blue hills, with here and there a patch of white suggesting a homestead, or a speck of red that betrayed a cottage.

Lena went up softly and slowly, so that the stir of the vegetation might not betray her, till suddenly she heard voices. She stopped and listened, then went on still more cautiously till there was only a screen of green between her and the speakers. Then she dropped among the bracken and was completely hidden, though she could hear perfectly. Margaret was speaking, and her voice was indignant—

"This is my wood; it belongs to me."

"Oh, come now!"

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Hannah told me herself; she said you spent your mornings up here instead of going to church, so I thought I'd just look in."

Lena, peeping through the greenery, could see that they stood facing each other—Margaret, with her head thrown back, resting one hand against the trunk of a tree. On the gnarled roots that rose high from the ground, and had evidently formed her seat, lay an open book. Mr. Garratt, with a triumphant expression, stood a few paces off.

"You must go back instantly," Margaret said.

"Not I! Come, let's sit down and have a quiet little talk—we don't often get the chance."

"Mr. Garratt, please—please go away," she said, "why should you try to annoy me as you do. You came here to see Hannah—"

"Well I don't come now to see Hannah—"

"Then you had better stay away—"

"I should like to stay away if I had you with me. Look here, don't cut up rusty or be silly. I'm not a bad sort of chap, you know," and he tugged at his mustache; "lots of girls have rather fancied me, but I've never cared a bit for one of them, though I've chaffed them a little now and then, because I've liked to make them mad."

"I don't care what you like, and I want you to go away."

"But I mean business this time, give you my word I do. I'm awfully fond of you and I'll tell 'em so when we get back if you'll say it's all right—"

"It's not all right!" Margaret cried, passionately.

"Well, you needn't take on so—you're awfully pretty." He went a step nearer. "I say, give me a kiss to go on with."

"I would rather die," and she drew back closer to the trunk of the tree.

"Well, you needn't shudder as if I were snakes or coal-tar; you may not know it, young lady, but you are not everybody's money, in spite of your good looks. I'm not a stickler myself, still it isn't all plain sailing marrying a girl who won't go into a church, and whose family is a mystery. It would not add to the business, I assure you."

"My family a mystery?" said Margaret. Lena cocked up her head like a snake and looked through the leaves; she could see them quite plainly. "How dare you—"

"Oh, well, we won't say anything more about it if you're going to explode. Still, there may be all sorts of crimes covered up for what we know to the contrary, and I understand that the farm will belong to Hannah by and by—"

"And that's why you thought of marrying her, I suppose?" she asked, indignantly.

"Of course it is," he answered triumphantly, "but I'd rather have you with nothing at all. I'm quite gone on you, Margaret; I am, indeed."

"How dare you call me Margaret?"

"All right, then I'm very fond of you, ducky; will that do? And I'll marry you to-morrow if you like—get a special license, wake up the parson, and off we go. You've only got to say the word. Now, come, give us a kiss and say it's all right. I'm not a bad sort, I tell you, and I'm bound to get on, and we'll do all manner of things when we are married—you bet. Come now?"

"Mr. Garratt," Margaret said in a low voice, "it's very kind of you to want to marry me, but—but I want you to understand," and the hot tears rushed down her flushed cheeks, "that I simply can't bear you."

"That's a straight one—you do give them out, you know."

"And I wouldn't marry you for the world," she went on; "either you must make it up with Hannah, or you must leave off coming here." She had brushed away her tears, and, flushed and haughty, looked him imploringly in the face.

"Oh, I say, don't go on like this; I wouldn't make you unhappy for the world," and he went a step forward.

"Oh, do keep back!" she said with another shudder. "I hate you—"

"All right, hate me," his wounded vanity getting the better of him, "but I'll have something for my pains at any rate," and in a moment he had darted forward and tried to clasp her in his arms.

Margaret gave a cry of fright that ended in one of astonishment, for suddenly the leaves that formed a low wall half-way round her cathedral parted and Lena appeared.

"You mustn't be so cruel!" she cried. He let go Margaret and stood gaping at Lena, who crossed over to the tree.

"I said you would have to love us, little Margaret; I've come to rescue you," she said, and put her arms round Margaret, to whom it seemed as if her Eden were full of serpents.

"Well, if you don't mind, I should like to know who the deuce you are, miss?" said Mr. Garratt, astonished, but not in the least confused.

"I'm Margaret's friend," Lena answered, in her sugary voice.

"And what business is this of yours?" he inquired, insolently.

"I know her father and I know her. Darling," she said, pulling Margaret towards her, "I told you in London it was always best to tell everything about yourself," and then she turned to Mr. Garratt. "She doesn't go to church; it's very wrong of her, but she would go if she were coaxed. Perhaps she'll go with me some day. And there isn't any mystery about her family. It's a very, very old one, isn't it, dear?" she said, looking at Margaret. "It came over with the Conqueror."

"Well, mine may have scudded about with Noah's for all I know to the contrary. What's that got to do with it?" Mr. Garratt asked.

"He means it for a joke, darling," Lena said to Margaret. "He doesn't mean to be rude—" She stood with her arms round Margaret, looking with soft reproachfulness at Mr. Garrett.

"Look here, I'm off," he said with a sudden inspiration; "good-morning," and in a moment he had disappeared down the direct pathway towards the farm.