“I grant the anomaly is not common,” said the Rector.  “But in Meadowsweet’s case I make a correct statement.  He was a perfect gentleman after the type of some of those who are mentioned in the Sacred Writings.  He was honest, courteous, self-forgetful.  His manners were delightful, because his object ever was to put the person he was speaking to completely at his ease.  He had the natural advantage of a refined appearance, and his accent was pure, and not marred by any provincialisms.  He could not help speaking in the best English because he was a scholar, and he spent all his leisure studying the classics.  Therefore, although he kept a draper’s shop, he was a gentleman.  By the way, Mrs. Bertram, do you know anything of the young girl who has been staying at your lodge?  You—­you are tired, my dear lady?”

“A little.  I will sit on this bench.  There is room for you too, Rector.  Sit near me, what about the girl at my lodge?”

“She is no longer at your lodge.  She has left.  Do you happen to know anything about her?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah, that seems a pity.  She is the sort of young creature to excite one’s sympathy.  I called to see her a week ago, and she talked prettily to me and looked sorrowful.  Her name, she says, is Hart.”

“Really?  I—­I confess I am not interested.”

“But you ought to be, my dear friend, you ought to be.  The girl seems alone and defenceless.  She is reserved with regard to her history, won’t make confidences, although I begged of her to confide in me, and assured her that I, in my position, would receive what she chose to tell under the seal of secrecy.  Her eyes filled with tears, poor little soul, but her lips were dumb.”

“Oh, she has nothing to confide.”

“Do you think so?  I can’t agree with you.  Although my lot has been cast in this remote out-of-the-world town, I have had my experiences, Mrs. Bertram, and I never yet saw a face like Miss Hart’s which did not conceal a history.”

“May I ask you, Mr. Ingram, if you ever before saw a face like Miss Hart’s?”

“Well, no, now that you put it to me, I don’t think that I ever have.  It is beautiful.”

“Ugly, you mean.”

“No, no, Mrs. Bertram.  With all due deference to your superior taste I cannot agree with you.  The features are classical, the eyes a little wild and defiant, but capable of much expression.  The hair of the admired Rossetti type.”

“Oh, spare me, Rector, spare me.  I don’t mean this low girl’s outward appearance.  It is that which I feel is within which makes her altogether ugly to me.”

“Ah, poor child—­women have intuitions, and you may be right.  It would of course not be judicious for your daughters to associate with Miss Hart.  But you, Mrs. Bertram, you, as a mother, might get at this poor child’s past, and counsel her as to her future.”

“She has gone away, has she not?” asked Mrs. Bertram.