However, Miss Boyce certainly made no sign.  She received him without any empressement, but also without the smallest symptom of offence.  They all moved into the church together, Mr. Raeburn carrying a vast bundle of ivy and fern, the rector and his sister laden with closely-packed baskets of cut flowers.  Everything was laid down on the chancel steps beside Marcella’s contribution, and then the Hardens began to plan out operations.  Miss Harden ran over on her fingers the contributions which had been sent in to the rectory, or were presently coming over to the church in a hand-cart.  “Lord Maxwell has sent the most beautiful pots for the chancel,” she said, with a grateful look at young Raeburn.  “It will be quite a show.”  To which the young rector assented warmly.  It was very good, indeed, of Lord Maxwell to remember them always so liberally at times like these, when they had so little direct claim upon him.  They were not his church or his parish, but he never forgot them all the same, and Mellor was grateful.  The rector had all his sister’s gentle effusiveness, but a professional dignity besides, even in his thanks, which made itself felt.

Marcella flushed as he was speaking.

“I went to see what I could get in the way of greenhouse things,” she said in a sudden proud voice.  “But we have nothing.  There are the houses, but there is nothing in them.  But you shall have all our out-of-door flowers, and I think a good deal might be done with autumn leaves and wild things if you will let me try.”

A speech, which brought a flush to Mr. Raeburn’s cheek as he stood in the background, and led Mary Harden into an eager asking of Marcella’s counsels, and an eager praising of her flowers.

Aldous Raeburn said nothing, but his discomfort increased with every moment.  Why had his grandfather been so officious in this matter of the flowers?  All very well when Mellor was empty, or in the days of a miser and eccentric, without womankind, like Robert Boyce.  But now—­the act began to seem to him offensive, a fresh affront offered to an unprotected girl, whose quivering sensitive look as she stood talking to the Hardens touched him profoundly.  Mellor church might almost be regarded as the Boyces’ private chapel, so bound up was it with the family and the house.  He realised painfully that he ought to be gone—­yet could not tear himself away.  Her passionate willingness to spend herself for the place and people she had made her own at first sight, checked every now and then by a proud and sore reserve—­it was too pretty, too sad.  It stung and spurred him as he watched her; one moment his foot moved for departure, the next he was resolving that somehow or other he must make speech with her—­excuse—­explain.  Ridiculous!  How was it possible that he should do either!