‘He didn’t approve of Davis,’ said the son, laughing.

‘He is too prejudiced a man to forget Davis.’

’The more he thinks of Davis, the better he’ll think of me if I can make him believe that I am not likely to want a Davis again.’

‘You’ll find him probably at the bank about half-past two.’

’I shall go to the house.  It wouldn’t be civil if I didn’t call on Mrs. Bolton.’

As the squire was never in the habit of going to the house at Chesterton himself, and as Mrs. Bolton was a lady who kept up none of the outward ceremonies of social life, he did not quite understand this; but he made no further objection.

On the following day, about five in the afternoon, he rode through the iron gates, which he with difficulty caused to be opened for him, and asked for Mrs. Bolton.  When he had been here before, the winter had commenced, and everything around had been dull and ugly; but now it was July, and the patch before the house was bright with flowers.  The roses were in full bloom, and every morsel of available soil was bedded out with geraniums.  As he stood holding his horse by the rein while he rang the bell, a side-door leading through the high brick wall from the garden, which stretched away behind the house, was suddenly opened, and a lady came through with a garden hat on, and garden gloves, and a basket full of rose leaves in her hand.  It was the lady of whom he had never ceased to think from the day on which he had been allowed just to touch her fingers, now five years ago.

It was she, of course, whom he had come to see, and there she was to be seen.  It was of her that he had come to form a judgment,—­to tell himself whether she was or was not such as he had dreamed her to be.  He had not been so foolishly romantic as to have been unaware that in all probability she might have grown up to be something very different from that which his fancy had depicted.  It might or it might not come to pass that that promise of loveliness,—­of loveliness combined with innocence and full intelligence,—­should be kept.  How often it is that Nature is unkind to a girl as she grows into womanhood, and robs the attractive child of her charms!  How often will the sparkle of early youth get itself quenched utterly by the dampness and clouds of the opening world.  He knew all that,—­and knew too that he had only just seen her, had barely heard the voice which had sounded so silvery sweet in his ears.

But there she was,—­to be seen again, to be heard, if possible, and to receive his judgment.  ‘Miss Bolton,’ he said, coming down the stone steps which he had ascended, that he might ring the bell, and offering her his hand.

‘Mr. Caldigate!’

‘You remember me, then?’

’Oh yes, I remember you very well.  I do not see people often enough to forget them.  And papa said that you were coming home.’

’I have come at once to call upon your mother and your father,—­and upon you.  I have to thank him for great kindness to me before I went.’