At half-past five on that same afternoon Jim Herrick and his dog were strolling across the meadows leading from the river to the village of Willowhurst.

The sky, which had been brilliantly blue all day, was beginning to be overcast, causing the energetic helpers at the Vicarage Bazaar to throw anxious glances towards the gathering clouds, and Herrick, who was a fair weather-prophet, foresaw a storm before sunset.

As he threw his leg over the stile leading into the last meadow, he paused suddenly.

Approaching him was Owen Rose's wife; and something in her mode of progress struck him as peculiar. She was coming along at a sort of fast walk, breaking now and then into a few running steps, stumbling occasionally and even stopping dead for a second before resuming her hurrying advance.

Her eyes were downcast; and she was quite close to him before she realized his presence. When she did look up he saw that she was crying, openly, sobbingly, as a child cries, the tears running in little channels over her cheeks and dropping unheeded where they would.

Even when she saw that she was not alone, Toni could not check those treacherous tears; and something told Herrick that she was craving for sympathy, that here was no sophisticated woman of the world, to whom the encounter would spell annoyance, but a forlorn and solitary child crying out its heart over some real or fancied tribulation, to whom a kindly word, a friendly greeting would bring only comfort.

He jumped off the stile and approached her, hat in hand.

"Mrs. Rose? You're in trouble over something? Will you tell me what's wrong—perhaps I can help you somehow?"

To his relief he saw that his impression had been correct. She turned to him desperately, like a child seeking consolation.

"Mr. Herrick"—she sobbed out the words—"I'm so miserable—I don't know what to do!"

"Come, that's bad!" He spoke kindly. "Well, suppose you rest here a moment and dry your eyes?"

She fumbled blindly in the front of her gown and then gave up the search with a childish wail.

"I've not got a handkerchief—I've lost it somewhere!"

"Never mind, I have one." He drew out a large silk square as yet unfolded, and pressed it into her hand. "There, use that—and then we'll have a talk."

She dried her eyes obediently, though fresh tears threatened to make her obedience futile; and then, still clinging to his handkerchief, she leaned against the stile and tried to regain her self-control.

"Well?" His tone, with its gentle sympathy, was balm to poor Toni's sore heart. "Come, little lady, what's the trouble? Let's see if we can't find a way out of it together."

She turned her eyes on him as he spoke, and he was almost startled at what he read there; for surely there was a hint of almost womanly suffering in their usually childish depths; and he knew intuitively that this was not the thoughtless, light-hearted girl he had previously known as Toni Rose.

"Mr. Herrick"—she spoke in a low voice, which in spite of all her efforts shook a little—"just now at the Vicarage Bazaar I heard Lady Martin and Mrs. Madgwick talking about me; and they said such terrible things that I think my heart will break!"

"Oh, come, Mrs. Rose!" His tone had, as he intended, a bracing effect. "Hearts don't break so easily as that! Whatever those two chatterers may have said, you must not let it affect you so seriously."

"They said I was common—and ill-bred—and ignorant." The words startled her hearer, though she spoke them with a kind of dreary quietness which was not without pathos. "They said Owen only married me because some girl—an earl's niece—had thrown him over and he wanted to get his own back—they said he was ashamed of me, that he blushed for me when we went out to dinner, and everyone pitied him for having such a common, empty-headed wife."

"My dear Mrs. Rose——" For a moment Herrick's wits deserted him beneath this recapitulation; and before he could hit on the right words, Toni had begun again.

"They said it was a pity for a clever man to be tied to an ignorant wife, that I bored him to death; and Lady Martin said I was a parasite, clinging to him for money and food, and that I had spoilt his life and ruined his career——"

"Oh, that is nonsense!" Herrick shook off the mental paralysis which had held him tongue-tied, and spoke vigorously. "No man's life was ever spoilt by the possession of a pretty, loving wife—like you."

"Ah, but you don't understand." She spoke drearily. "I have been a fool, I suppose. I was so happy myself that I never thought of Owen. I mean I just went on loving him—thinking he loved me. I didn't bother about his work and his career—it never struck me I should be doing Owen harm by my ignorance. I knew I wasn't clever enough to help him, but I thought that didn't matter so long as we were happy...."

"But you were happy?"

"I was." A big tear rolled forlornly down her cheek. "It was so lovely here—like a beautiful dream—the summer and the river and the roses ... every day was better than the last and I thought it would always be like that ... I had never dreamed I could be so happy ... it was just like a fairy-tale, I used to think sometimes I was like an enchanted princess, living in a wonderful castle—with my prince...." Her voice sank to a whisper, and she gazed out over the flower-strewn meadows with a wide-eyed glance which saw nothing.

Herrick's big heart, which in spite of his life's tragedy held still an infinite compassion for all weak and helpless things, was wrung with pity for this poor little creature, whose eyes had been opened so cruelly to the fact that life was not all an enchanted fairyland; and when he spoke his deep voice was very gentle.

"See here, little lady, you mustn't take all this to heart. These women were talking, you must remember, without any intimate knowledge of your affairs; and we all know that gossip is eminently uncharitable. Besides, loyalty to your husband should make you believe in him and his love."

"I do." She stopped abruptly, then went on again more impetuously. "But the worst of it is, I believe it is true, what they said. I am ignorant and silly. I hate going out to parties; I never feel at ease, I make foolish mistakes. Owen has been very kind, he has only laughed, but it must have been horrid for him to have such a foolish wife. At home, too ... it's quite true I haven't helped him. I've been out all day enjoying myself, and not bothering about his work. I did at first, and I made such stupid blunders that he used to have to do it all over again."

"Well, that's nothing." He spoke lightly. "After all, you are not a literary expert like your husband, and you can't be expected to do his work."

"No." She caught her white teeth fiercely in her lip. "But lots of women could have helped him. This one they spoke of—they said she was clever, accomplished, just the sort of wife for a man like Owen—not a stupid little dummy like me. And"—she paused, and every tinge of colour faded out of her face—"they said I was common—not a lady. Mr. Herrick, am I common? Am I—not a lady?"

With her eyes on his face, eyes full of a desperate hurt, Herrick felt a wild, impotent desire to strangle the two mischief-makers who had changed this girl's joy into bitterness, had turned a child's enchanted castle into a structure of pasteboard; but when he spoke his tone was admirably light.

"My dear child, now you are talking absolute nonsense. Common? Well, to me commonness consists in common behaviour, mean tempers, a nasty, spiteful attitude of mind, a discontent with one's surroundings, a petty jealousy of others—oh, I hate a common mind as much as anyone in the world—but to use the word in connection with you is merely an abuse of language and not to be treated seriously."

She was half perplexed, half comforted.

"But a lady, Mr. Herrick? Am I or am I not—a lady?"

"Well," he said slowly, "that again depends on the use of the word. Mrs. Swastika, my excellent charwoman, is referred to by her friends as 'the lady who looks after that queer man in the bungalow'; and when my usual milkman was taken ill the other day, my modest pint of milk was brought by a pig-tailed girl who announced, 'I'm the young lady as takes round Mr. Piggott's milk when he's sick!' So that you see the term 'lady' is capable of wide interpretation."

"But am I?" Her wistful tone craved for reassurance and Herrick gave it promptly.

"If by 'lady' you mean a woman who is fit to mix with any one in the land, yes," he said. "Of course you are."

She gave him a wan little smile, and dried away a few tears with the aid of his handkerchief.

"I don't know where mine is," she said, half-crying, half-laughing. "I must have dropped it somewhere."

"Or the Boo-Boos took it." He smiled at her puzzled expression. "Don't you know those dreadful little people—the people who hide one's pencils and one's handkerchiefs, put the clock back so that one misses one's train—or an appointment—and invariably send an organ-grinder outside one's window when one is hard at work and can't bear a noise!"

"But why do you call them Boo-Boos?" She might have been a child asking for the explanation of a fairy-tale.

"Well, they aren't Brownies, because they are a good little folk. And the Pixies, though their tricks are much the same, pursue their avocations out of doors on moor or hill; so that the only name I could find for them was just that—Boo-Boos!"

He laughed at her bewildered face.

"Come, Mrs. Rose, don't you ever feel conscious of their teasing presence? Don't you lose your hair-pins, or your brooches, or whatever corresponds to our collar-studs? And have you never noticed how a pen with which you are about to sign an important document, a will or something of the kind, has changed mysteriously into a pencil—generally without a point—when you pick it up?"

He had succeeded in his intention. His nonsense had won her to a smile; and the eyes which a few moments before had looked like those of a tortured woman were once again the eyes of a child.

"Do you know, Mrs. Rose"—Herrick felt there was danger in prolonging the situation once she had attained a comparative serenity—"I'm afraid it's going to rain! Don't you think we had better be moving homewards?"

She rose at once.

"Just as you like." She spoke with the utmost docility. "I suppose we had better go. I haven't an umbrella—have you?"

"No—and your dress is thin." He looked at her white gown, which had not been improved by her incarceration in the mouldy summer-house, and showed traces of the dust and dirt of the bench on which she had crouched while the two women talked outside. Altogether Toni presented a pathetic little figure; and Herrick felt a sudden desire to know her safely at home, hidden from inquisitive eyes.

He called Olga, who had been playing an enticing game of hunting quite imaginary rabbits in the hedgerow; and when the great dog bounded up in obedience to his summons, he jumped over the stile and held out his hand to help Toni. She climbed over rather lifelessly, catching her white skirt on a splinter of wood and tearing a rent which filled Herrick with dismay.

"You've torn your pretty dress! What a shame—will it be quite spoilt?"

"Oh no, I can mead it," she returned indifferently, "and any way it doesn't matter." To Toni nothing mattered just then.

"That wretched splinter was to blame. I'm afraid I didn't notice it," he said contritely.

"Oh, it wasn't your fault. Perhaps it was one of your queer creatures, the Boo-Boos," said Toni with a wintry attempt at a smile; and Herrick was struck with the readiness with which she had adopted his whimsical theory.

As they went across the fields beneath the now cloudy sky, he tried to keep the conversation at the same light level; but although Toni strove to adapt herself to his mood, it was evident that her thoughts were still circling round the revelation which had shattered her fairy castle; and just as the chimneys of Greenriver came in sight above the tall tree-tops, she asked him a question which had been formulating in her mind throughout the walk homewards.

"Mr. Herrick, do you think I could improve myself somehow—I mean could I read some books, or do something to make myself a more suitable wife for Owen? You know"—she caught her breath—"I can't bear for him to be ashamed of me, or bored with me—and they said—those women, that he was both."

For a second Herrick thought of treating the matter lightly, assuring her that what the women had said was of no importance whatever. Then he knew there was only one course open to him, and he met sincerity with sincerity, candour with candour.

"It would be very easy for you to do a little reading," he said quietly. "Of course a literary man like Mr. Rose forgets that everyone has not his fine taste in books; and on the other hand, it is very easy to acquire a liking for poor stuff. But there are lots of authors who would delight you with their books, and if I can give you any help I shall be charmed to make you out a list."

"Will you?" Her eyes lighted up for a second. "There are hundreds of books in the house—the library is supposed to be rather remarkable, you know, and I expect lots of the books you mean are there."

"I've no doubt of it." He remembered hearing of the unique collection which Greenriver housed. "Tell me what sort of books you like? Travel, history, romance—what?"

The light died out of her eyes.

"I don't know." Her voice sounded flat. "I don't think I like anything much—except stories. Novels, I mean," she added hastily.

"Well, there are plenty of very fine novels," he said cheerily. "And no one need be ashamed of liking that form of story-telling. I always fail to understand the attitude of the person who says 'I never read novels!' as though he were claiming a tremendous superiority, whereas he's only showing himself a narrow-minded and unimaginative person!"

"But reading novels won't make me clever?" said Toni rather wistfully.

"Well, probably not, if you read nothing else," he owned. "But there is plenty more stuff for you to read. What about poetry?"

She shook her head.

"Well, you'll soon get to like it," he said smiling. "You needn't flesh your maiden sword in Browning, you know. Anyway, I will send you a list, shall I?—of books that I think you'll like. Can you read French?"

Blushing, she confessed her inability to do more than recognize a French quotation here and there; and a new thought filled her mind.

"Do you think if I were to study French, Mr. Herrick? I've got all my old books, and I could do an exercise every day."

Herrick was half inclined to smile, but she was so desperately in earnest that he refrained.

"A capital plan," he said heartily, thinking to himself that the harder she worked the less time she would have for fretting.

"And if I got to know more poetry I might be able to help Owen with his articles," she said, smiling happily, reassured by his friendly counsel. "Of course they were quite right—I am stupid and ignorant, but if I work hard I think I ought to be able to make myself useful to Owen, oughtn't I, Mr. Herrick?"

"Don't work too hard," he said, half jesting, half in earnest. "You don't want to turn yourself into a blue-stocking, do you? Don't over-develop your brain at the expense of your heart and soul, as so many learned women have done—to their ultimate despair."

"There's no fear of that." Toni spoke in a low voice, and again he caught a glimpse of something disconcerting in her clear eyes. "Those women said I had no soul. But that's nonsense, because everyone has a soul."

"But not everyone realizes it," he said. "Some people go through life and never know they have more than a body, which claims attention while the soul waits, yearningly, for recognition."

He had spoken half to himself, his thoughts wandering for a moment from the girl beside him to another girl whose soul had been, to him at least, as a sealed book.

"I have been like that," said Toni surprisingly. "But I have a soul—and for Owen's sake I am going to prove it. Only"—she faltered find her brave accents died away—"perhaps it is too late, after all."

And though, when he left her at her own door, refusing her invitation to enter, she had regained much of her usual manner, her last words haunted Herrick all through the long, lonely evening.

He knew quite well that there was a good deal of truth in the accusation brought against the shrinking Toni. Although he lived a solitary life, it was impossible altogether to avoid contact with one's neighbours along the river; and he had heard sundry bits of conversation concerning Toni which went to prove that Owen Rose's choice of a wife was freely criticized in the neighbourhood. People agreed that she was certainly surprisingly pretty, but she did not belong to the class which filled all the big houses round about. The charitable said she was shy, the malicious called her gauche, without perhaps knowing exactly what they meant; and everyone who had talked to her asserted that she had no conversation, and did not appear in the least a suitable wife for a clever man like Mr. Rose.

"Poor little girl!" Herrick rose from his seat with a sigh at the end of the long, dreary evening. "I'm sorry for her—like the little mermaiden of Hans Andersen, she is ready—now—to dance upon knives for the possession of a soul! Well, she'll win her soul all right, but God grant the winning of it doesn't end in tragedy!"

He stood for a moment gazing into vacancy with a half-tender, half-cynical smile on his lips. Then he extinguished the lamp, called Olga from her resting-place on the old divan, and went slowly to bed.