“Shameful flirt!”

The acidity of the tone was so pronounced that Mrs. Carradyne, seated near and busy at her netting, lifted her head in surprise.  “Why, Eliza, what’s the matter?  Who is a flirt?”

“Lucy,” curtly replied Eliza, pointing with her finger.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Carradyne, after glancing outwards.

“Why does she persistently lay herself out to attract that man?” was the passionate rejoinder.

“Be silent, Eliza.  How can you conjure up so unjust a charge?  Lucy is not capable of laying herself out to attract anyone.  It lies but in your imagination.”

“Day after day, when she is out with Kate, you may see him join her—­allured to her side.”

“The ‘allurer’ is Kate, then.  I am surprised at you, Eliza:  you might be talking of a servant-maid.  Kate has taken a liking for Mr. Grame, and she runs after him at all times and seasons.”

“She ought to be stopped, then.”

“Stopped!  Will you undertake to do it?  Could her mother be stopped in anything she pleased to do?  And the child has the same rebellious will.”

“I say that Robert Grame’s attraction is Lucy.”

“It may be so,” acknowledged Mrs. Carradyne.  “But the attraction must lie in Lucy herself; not in anything she does.  Some suspicion of the sort has, at times, crossed me.”

She looked at them again as she spoke.  They were sauntering onwards slowly; Mr. Grame bending towards Lucy, and talking earnestly.  Kate, dancing about, pulling at his arm or his coat, appeared to get but little attention.  Mrs. Carradyne quietly went on with her work.

And that composed manner, combined with her last sentence, brought gall and wormwood to Eliza Monk.

Throwing a summer scarf upon her shoulders, Eliza passed out at the French window, crossed the terrace, and set out to confront the conspirators.  But she was not in time.  Seeing her coming, or not seeing her—­who knew?—­Mr. Grame turned off with a fleet foot towards his home.  So nobody remained for Miss Monk to waste her angry breath upon but Lucy.  The breath was keenly sharp, and Lucy fell to weeping.

* * * * *

“I am here, Grame.  Don’t go in.”

The words fell on the clergyman’s ears as he closed the Vicarage gate behind him, and was passing up the path to his door.  Turning his head, he saw Hubert Monk seated on the bench under the May tree, pink and lovely yet.  “How long have you been here?” he asked, sitting down beside him.

“Ever so long; waiting for you,” replied Hubert.

“I was but strolling about.”

“I saw you:  with Lucy and the child.”

They had become fast and firm friends, these two young men; and the minister was insensibly exercising a wonderful influence over Hubert for good.  Believing—­as he did believe—­that Hubert’s days were numbered, that any sharp extra exertion might entail fatal consequences, he gently strove, as opportunity offered, to lead his thoughts to the Better Land.