And now a higher class of visitors began to find their way to the general favorite.  The first was a fair young lady of surpassing beauty.  She strolled pensively down the green turf, cast a hasty glance in at the workshop, and not seeing Hope, concluded he was a little tired after his journey, and had not yet arrived.  She strolled slowly down then, and seated herself in a large garden chair, stuffed, that Hope had made, and placed there for Colonel Clifford.  That worthy frequented the spot because he had done so for years, and because it was a sweet turfy slope; and there was a wonderful beech-tree his father had made him plant when he was five years old.  It had a gigantic silvery stem, and those giant branches which die crippled in a beech wood but really belong to the isolated tree, as one Virgil discovered before we were born.  Mary Bartley then lowered her parasol, and settled into the Colonel’s chair under the shade patulae fagi—­of the wide-spreading beech-tree.

She sat down and sighed.  Monckton eyed her from his lurking-place, and made a shrewd guess who she was, but resolved to know.

Presently Hope caught a glimpse of her, and came forward and leaned out of the window to enjoy the sight of her.  He could do that unobserved, for he was a long way behind her at a sharp angle.

He was still a widower and this his only child, and lovely as an angel; and he had seen her grow into ripe loveliness from a sick girl.  He had sinned for her and saved her; he had saved her again from a more terrible death.  He doted on her, and it was always a special joy to him when he could gloat on her unseen.  Then he had no need to make up an artificial face and hide his adoration from her.

But soon a cloud came over his face and his paternal heart.  He knew she had a lover; and she looked like a girl who was waiting pensively for him.  She had not come there for him whom she knew only as her devoted friend.  At this thought the poor father sighed.

Mary’s quick senses caught that, and she turned her head, and her sweet face beamed.

“You are there, after all, Mr. Hope.”

Hope was delighted.  Why, it was him she had come to see, after all.  He came down to her directly, radiant, and then put on a stiff manner he often had to wear, out of fidelity to Bartley, who did not deserve it.

“This is early for you to be out, Miss Bartley.”

“Of course it is,” said she.  “But I know it is the time of day when you are kind to anybody that comes, and mend all their rubbish for them, and I could kill them for their impudence in wasting your time so.  And I am as bad as the rest.  For here I am wasting your time in my turn.  Yes, dear Mr. Hope, you are so kind to everybody and mend their things, I want you to be kind to me and mend—­my prospects for me.”

Hope’s impulse was to gather into his arms and devour with kisses this sweet specimen of womanly tenderness, frank inconsistency, naivete, and archness.