established in the Hall frightened her.  She had felt since she came to Billingsfield that from the very first she had put herself upon a footing of safety by telling her story to the vicar.  But the vicar would, not without her permission repeat that story to Mr. Juxon.  Was she herself called upon to do so?  She was a very sensitive woman, and her impressionable nature had been strongly affected by what she had suffered.  An almost morbid fear of seeming to make false pretences possessed her.  She was more than thirty years of age, it is true, but she saw plainly enough in her glass that she was more than passably good-looking still.  There were one or two grey threads in her brown waving hair and she took no trouble to remove them; no one ever noticed them.  There were one or two lines, very faint lines, in her forehead; no one ever saw them.  She could hardly see them herself.  Supposing—­why should she not suppose it?—­supposing Mr. Juxon were to take a fancy to her, as a lone bachelor of forty and odd might easily take a fancy to a pretty woman who was his tenant and lived at his gate, what should she do?  He was an honest man, and she was a conscientious woman; she could not deceive him, if it came to that.  She would have to tell him the whole truth.  As she thought of it, she turned pale and trembled.  And yet she had liked his face, she had told him he might call at the cottage, and her woman’s instinct foresaw that she was to see him often.  It was not vanity which made her think that the squire might grow to like her too much.  She had had experiences in her life and she knew that she was attractive; the very fear she had felt for the last two years lest she should be thrown into the society of men who might be attracted by her, increased her apprehension tenfold.  She could not look forward with indifference to the expected visit, for the novelty of seeing any one besides the vicar and his wife was too great; she could not refuse to see the squire, for he would come again and again until she received him; and yet, she could not get rid of the idea that there was danger in seeing him.  Call it as one may, that woman’s instinct of peril is rarely at fault.

In the late twilight of the June evening Mrs. Goddard and Eleanor waited home together by the broad road which led towards the park gate.

“Don’t you think Mr. Juxon is very kind, mamma?” asked the child.

“Yes, darling, I have no doubt he is.  It was very good of him to ask you to go to the Hall.”

“And he called me Miss Goddard,” said Eleanor.  “I wonder whether he will always call me Miss Goddard.”

“He did not know your name was Nellie,” explained her mother.

“Oh, I wish nobody knew, mamma.  It was so nice.  When shall I be grown up, mamma?”

“Soon, my child—­too soon,” said Mrs. Goddard with a sigh.  Nellie looked at her mother and was silent for a minute.

“Mamma, do you like Mr. Juxon?” she asked presently.