THOUGH Kenelm did not think it necessary at present to report to his parents or his London acquaintances his recent movements and his present resting-place, it never entered into his head to lurk perdu in the immediate vicinity of Lily’s house, and seek opportunities of meeting her clandestinely. He walked to Mrs. Braefield’s the next morning, found her at home, and said in rather a more off-hand manner than was habitual to him, “I have hired a lodging in your neighbourhood, on the banks of the brook, for the sake of its trout-fishing. So you will allow me to call on you sometimes, and one of these days I hope you will give me the dinner I so unceremoniously rejected some days ago. I was then summoned away suddenly, much against my will.”

“Yes; my husband said that you shot off from him with a wild exclamation about duty.”

“Quite true; my reason, and I may say my conscience, were greatly perplexed upon a matter extremely important and altogether new to me. I went to Oxford,—the place above all others in which questions of reason and conscience are most deeply considered, and perhaps least satisfactorily solved. Relieved in my mind by my visit to a distinguished ornament of that university, I felt I might indulge in a summer holiday, and here I am.”

“Ah! I understand. You had religious doubts,—thought perhaps of turning Roman Catholic. I hope you are not going to do so?”

“My doubts were not necessarily of a religious nature. Pagans have entertained them.”

“Whatever they were I am pleased to see they did not prevent your return,” said Mrs. Braefield, graciously. “But where have you found a lodging; why not have come to us? My husband would have been scarcely less glad than myself to receive you.”

“You say that so sincerely, and so cordially, that to answer by a brief ‘I thank you’ seems rigid and heartless. But there are times in life when one yearns to be alone,—to commune with one’s own heart, and, if possible, be still; I am in one of those moody times. Bear with me.”

Mrs. Braefield looked at him with affectionate, kindly interest. She had gone before him through the solitary road of young romance. She remembered her dreamy, dangerous girlhood, when she, too, had yearned to be alone.

“Bear with you; yes, indeed. I wish, Mr. Chillingly, that I were your sister, and that you would confide in me. Something troubles you.”

“Troubles me,—no. My thoughts are happy ones, and they may sometimes perplex me, but they do not trouble.”

Kenelm said this very softly; and in the warmer light of his musing eyes, the sweeter play of his tranquil smile, there was an expression which did not belie his words.

“You have not told me where you have found a lodging,” said Mrs. Braefield, somewhat abruptly.

“Did I not?” replied Kenelm, with an unconscious start, as from an abstracted reverie. “With no undistinguished host, I presume, for when I asked him this morning for the right address of this cottage, in order to direct such luggage as I have to be sent there, he gave me his card with a grand air, saying, ‘I am pretty well known at Moleswich, by and beyond it.’ I have not yet looked at his card. Oh, here it is,—‘Algernon Sidney Gale Jones, Cromwell Lodge;’ you laugh. What do you know of him?”

“I wish my husband were here; he would tell you more about him. Mr. Jones is quite a character.”

“So I perceive.”

“A great radical,—very talkative and troublesome at the vestry; but our vicar, Mr. Emlyn, says there is no real harm in him, that his bark is worse than his bite, and that his republican or radical notions must be laid to the door of his godfathers! In addition to his name of Jones, he was unhappily christened Gale; Gale Jones being a noted radical orator at the time of his birth. And I suppose Algernon Sidney was prefixed to Gale in order to devote the new-born more emphatically to republican principles.”

“Naturally, therefore, Algernon Sidney Gale Jones baptizes his house Cromwell Lodge, seeing that Algernon Sidney held the Protectorate in especial abhorrence, and that the original Gale Jones, if an honest radical, must have done the same, considering what rough usage the advocates of Parliamentary Reform met with at the hands of his Highness. But we must be indulgent to men who have been unfortunately christened before they had any choice of the names that were to rule their fate. I myself should have been less whimsical had I not been named after a Kenelm who believed in sympathetic powders. Apart from his political doctrines, I like my landlord: he keeps his wife in excellent order. She seems frightened at the sound of her own footsteps, and glides to and fro, a pallid image of submissive womanhood in list slippers.”

“Great recommendations certainly, and Cromwell Lodge is very prettily situated. By the by, it is very near Mrs. Cameron’s.”

“Now I think of it, so it is,” said Kenelm, innocently. Ah! my friend Kenelm, enemy of shams, and truth-teller, par excellence, what hast thou come to? How are the mighty fallen! “Since you say you will dine with us, suppose we fix the day after to-morrow, and I will ask Mrs. Cameron and Lily.”

“The day after to-morrow: I shall be delighted.”

“An early hour?”

“The earlier the better.”

“Is six o’clock too early?”

“Too early! certainly not; on the contrary. Good-day: I must now go to Mrs. Somers; she has charge of my portmanteau.”

Then Kenelm rose.

“Poor dear Lily!” said Mrs. Braefield; “I wish she were less of a child.”

Kenelm reseated himself.

“Is she a child? I don’t think she is actually a child.”

“Not in years; she is between seventeen and eighteen: but my husband says that she is too childish to talk to, and always tells me to take her off his hands; he would rather talk with Mrs. Cameron.”

“Indeed!”

“Still I find something in her.”

“Indeed!”

“Not exactly childish, nor quite womanish.”

“What then?”

“I can’t exactly define. But you know what Mr. Melville and Mrs. Cameron call her as a pet name?”

“No.”

“Fairy! Fairies have no age; fairy is neither child nor woman.”

“Fairy. She is called fairy by those who know her best? Fairy!”

“And she believes in fairies.”

“Does she?—so do I. Pardon me, I must be off. The day after to-morrow,—six o’clock.”

“Wait one moment,” said Elsie, going to her writing-table. “Since you pass Grasmere on your way home, will you kindly leave this note?”

“I thought Grasmere was a lake in the north?”

“Yes; but Mr. Melville chose to call the cottage by the name of the lake. I think the first picture he ever sold was a view of Wordsworth’s house there. Here is my note to ask Mrs. Cameron to meet you; but if you object to be my messenger—”

“Object! my dear Mrs. Braefield. As you say, I pass close by the cottage.”