Her face, her voice, her regal manners, her exquisitely tender smile, came upon Charles with the shock of discovery.  These two had not seen one another for years.  The date of this first call was December 22nd:  then and there—­with a shade of regret that in a few days he must leave London to pay Wroote a visit before his vacation closed—­ Charles resolved that she should not spend her Christmas uncheered.  On Christmas Day he had carried her off with her husband to dine at Westminster with Mr. and Mrs. Sam Wesley.  Mr. Wright had been on his best behaviour, Mrs. Sam unexpectedly gracious, and the meeting altogether a great success.  Charles had walked home with the guests, and had called again the next afternoon.  He could see that his visits gave Hetty the purest delight, and now that they must end, he, too, realised how pleasant they had been, and that he was going to miss them sorely.

“Only seven days?” he went on, musing.  “I can hardly believe it; you have let me talk at such length—­and I have been so happy.”

Hetty clapped her hands together—­an old girlish trick of hers.  “It’s I that have been happy!  And not least in knowing that you will do us all credit.”  She knit her brows.  “You are different from all the rest of us, Charles; I cannot explain how.  But, sure, there’s a Providence in it, that you, who are meant for different fortunes—­”

“How different?”

“Why, you will take our kinsman’s offer, of course.  You will move in a society far above us—­go into Parliament—­become a great statesman—­”

“My dear Hetty, what puts that into your head?  I have refused.”

“Refused!” She set down the kettle and gazed at him.  “Is this John’s doing?” she asked slowly.

“Why should it be John’s doing?” He was nettled, and showed it.  “I am old enough to make a choice for myself.”

She paid no heed to this disclaimer.  “They are perfectly ruthless,” she went on.

“Who are ruthless?”

“Father and John.  They would compass heaven and earth to make one proselyte; and the strange thing to me is that John at least does it in a cold mechanical way, almost as if his own mind stood outside of the process.  Father is set on his inheriting Wroote and Epworth cures, John on saving his own soul; let them come to terms or fight it out between them.  But how can it profit Epworth or John’s soul that they should condemn you, as they have condemned mother and all of us, to hopeless poverty?  What end have they in view?  Or have they any?  For what service, pray, are you held in reserve?” She paused.  “Somehow I think they will not wholly succeed, even though they have done this thing between them.  You will fall on your feet; your face is one the world will make friends with.  You may serve their purpose, but something of you—­your worldly happiness, belike—­will slip and escape from the millstones which have ground the rest of us to powder.”