Mary at once saw the Vicar’s intention.  He had never since the memorable evening deviated from his old pastoral kindness towards her, and her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep.  Mary was accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probable, and if a belief flattered her vanity she felt warned to dismiss it as ridiculous, having early had much exercise in such dismissals.  It was as she had foreseen:  when Fred had been asked to admire the fittings of the study, and she had been asked to admire the spider, Mr. Farebrother said—­

“Wait here a minute or two.  I am going to look out an engraving which Fred is tall enough to hang for me.  I shall be back in a few minutes.”  And then he went out.  Nevertheless, the first word Fred said to Mary was—­

“It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary.  You are sure to marry Farebrother at last.”  There was some rage in his tone.

“What do you mean, Fred?” Mary exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeply, and surprised out of all her readiness in reply.

“It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough—­ you who see everything.”

“I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr. Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way.  How can you have taken up such an idea?”

Fred was rather deep, in spite of his irritation.  If Mary had really been unsuspicious, there was no good in telling her what Mrs. Garth had said.

“It follows as a matter of course,” he replied.  “When you are continually seeing a man who beats me in everything, and whom you set up above everybody, I can have no fair chance.”

“You are very ungrateful, Fred,” said Mary.  “I wish I had never told Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least.”

“No, I am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world if it were not for this.  I told your father everything, and he was very kind; he treated me as if I were his son.  I could go at the work with a will, writing and everything, if it were not for this.”

“For this? for what?” said Mary, imagining now that something specific must have been said or done.

“This dreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother.”  Mary was appeased by her inclination to laugh.

“Fred,” she said, peeping round to catch his eyes, which were sulkily turned away from her, “you are too delightfully ridiculous.  If you were not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play the wicked coquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you has made love to me.”

“Do you really like me best, Mary?” said Fred, turning eyes full of affection on her, and trying to take her hand.

“I don’t like you at all at this moment,” said Mary, retreating, and putting her hands behind her.  “I only said that no mortal ever made love to me besides you.  And that is no argument that a very wise man ever will,” she ended, merrily.