Diana had speedily carved for herself a niche of her own in the Rectory household, so that when the exigencies of her musical training, as viewed through Carlo Baroni’s eyes, had necessitated her departure from Crailing for a whole year, Stair and his daughter had felt her absence keenly, and they welcomed her back with open arms.

The account of the railway accident which had attended her homeward journey had filled them with anxiety lest she should suffer from the effects of shock, and they had insisted that she should breakfast in bed this first morning of her arrival, inclining to treat her rather as though she were a semi-invalid.

“Have you been to see Diana?” asked Stair anxiously, as his daughter joined him in the dining-room.

She shook her head.

“No need.  Diana’s been in to see me!  There’s no breakfast in bed about her; she’ll be down directly.  Even her arm doesn’t pain her much.”

Stair laughed.

“What a girl it is!” he exclaimed.  “One would have expected her to feel a bit shaken up after her experience yesterday.”

“I fancy something else must have happened beside the railway accident,” observed Joan wisely.  “Something interesting enough to have outweighed the shock of the smash-up.  She’s in quite absurdly good spirits for some unknown reason.”

The Rector chuckled.

“Perhaps a gallant rescuer was added to the experience, eh?” he said.

“Perhaps so,” replied his daughter, faintly smiling as she proceeded to pour out the coffee.

Jean Stair was a typical English country girl, strictly tailor-made in her appearance, with a predisposition towards stiff linen collars and neat ties.  In figure she was slight almost to boyishness and she had no pretensions whatever to good looks, but there was nevertheless something frank and wholesome and sweet about her—­something of the charm of a nice boy—­that counterbalanced her undeniable plainness.  As she had once told Diana:  “I’m not beautiful, so I’m obliged to be good.  You’re not compelled, by the same necessity, and I may yet see you sliding down the primrose path, whereas I shall inevitably end my days in the odour of sanctity—­probably a parish worker to some celibate vicar!”

The Rector and Joan were half-way through their breakfast when a light step sounded in the hall outside, and a minute later the door flew open to admit Diana.

“Good morning, dear people,” she exclaimed gaily.  “Am I late?  It looks like it from the devastated appearance of the bacon dish.  Pobs, you’ve eaten all the breakfast!” And, she dropped, a light kiss on the top of the Rector’s head.  “Ugh!  Your hair’s all wet with sea-water.  Why don’t you dry yourself when you take a bath, Pobs dear?  I’ll come with you to-morrow—­not to dry you, I mean, but just to bathe.”

Stair surveyed her with a twinkle as he retrieved her plate of kidneys and bacon from the hearth where it had been set down to keep hot.