‘You see, she’s altogether too good to be true!’ said Farrell.  ’And yet it is true.  She looks after her grandfather and the parish.  She runs the Sunday school, and all the big boys are in love with her.  She does V.A.D. work at the hospital.  She spends nothing on her dress.  She’s probably up at six every morning.  And all the time, instead of being plain, which of course virtue ought to be, she’s as pretty as possible—­like a little bird.  And Cicely can’t abide her.  I don’t know whether she’s in love with Marsworth.  Probably she is.  Why not?  At any rate, whenever Marsworth and Cicely fall out, which they do every day—­Cicely has the vile habit—­of course you know!—­of visiting Marsworth’s sins upon little Daisy Stewart.  I understood she was guilty of some enormity at the Red Cross sale in the village last week.  Marsworth was shocked, and had it out with her.  Consequently they haven’t been on speaking terms for days.’

‘What shall we do with them to-morrow?’ cried Nelly in alarm, coming to sit down again by the fire and taking up her knitting.  How strange it was—­after that moment of tempestuous emotion—­to have fallen back within a few minutes into this familiar, intimate chat!  Her pulse was still rushing.  She knew that something irrevocable had happened, and that when she was alone, she must face it.  And meanwhile here she sat knitting!—­and trying to help him with Cicely as usual!

’Oh, and to-morrow!’—­said Farrell with amusement, ’the fat will indeed be in the fire.’

And he revealed the fact that on his way through Grasmere he had fallen in with the Stewarts.  The old man had been suffering from bronchitis, and the two had come for a few days’ change to some cousins at Grasmere.

’And the old man’s a bit of a collector and wants to see the Turners.  He knows Carton by heart.  So I had to ask them to come up to-morrow—­and there it is!—­Cicely will find them in possession, with Marsworth in attendance!’

‘Why does she come at all?’ said Nelly, wondering.  ’She knows Captain Marsworth will be here.  She said so, in her telegram.’

Farrell shrugged his shoulders.

’"It taks aw soarts to mak a worrld,” as they say up here.  But Marsworth and Cis are queer specimens!  I am privately certain he can’t do for long without seeing her.  And as for her, I had no sooner arranged that he should join me here to-night, than she telegraphed to you!  Just like her!  I had no idea she thought of coming.  Well, I suppose to quarrel yourself into matrimony is one of the recognised openings!’

The talk dropped.  The joint consciousness behind it was too much for it.  It fell like a withered leaf.

Farrell got up to go.  Nelly too rose, trembling, to her feet.  He took her hand.

‘Don’t leave us,’ he repeated, softly.  ’You are our little saint—­you help us by just living.  Don’t attempt things too hard for you.  You’ll kill yourself, and then——­’