One of the last to see signs and tokens, though they took place under her open eyes, was Mrs. Carradyne.  But she saw at last.  The clergyman could not walk across a new-mown field, or down a shady lane, or be hastening along the dusty turnpike road, but by some inexplicable coincidence he would be met by Miss Monk; and when he came to the Hall to pass an hour with Hubert, she generally made a third at the interview.  It had pleased her latterly to take to practising on the old church organ; and if Mr. Grame was not wiled into the church with her and her attendant, the ancient clerk, who blew the bellows, she was sure to alight upon him in going or returning.

One fine evening, dinner over, when the last beams of the sun were slanting into the drawing-room, Eliza Monk was sitting back on a sofa, reading; Kate romped about the room, and Mrs. Carradyne had just rung the bell for tea.  Lucy had been spending the afternoon with Mrs. Speck, and Hubert had now gone to fetch her home.

“Good gracious, Kate, can’t you be quiet!” exclaimed Miss Monk, as the child in her gambols sprung upon the sofa, upsetting the book and its reader’s temper.  “Go away:  you are treading on my flounces.  Aunt Emma, why do you persist in having this tiresome little reptile with us after dinner?”

“Because your father will not let her be sent to the nursery,” said Mrs. Carradyne.

“Did you ever know a child like her?”

“She is but as her mother was; as you were, Eliza—­always rebellious.  Kate, sit down to the piano and play one of your pretty tunes.”

“I won’t,” responded Kate.  “Play yourself, Aunt Emma.”

Dashing through the open glass doors, Kate began tossing a ball on the broad gravel walk below the terrace.  Mrs. Carradyne cautioned her not to break the windows, and turned to the tea-table.

“Don’t make the tea yet, Aunt Emma,” interrupted Miss Monk, in a tone that was quite like a command.  “Mr. Grame is coming, and he won’t care for cold tea.”

Mrs. Carradyne returned to her seat.  She thought the opportunity had come to say something to her niece which she had been wanting to say.

“You invited Mr. Grame, Eliza?”

“I did,” said Eliza, looking defiance.

“My dear,” resumed Mrs. Carradyne with some hesitation, “forgive me if I offer you a word of advice.  You have no mother; I pray you to listen to me in her stead.  You must change your line of behaviour to Mr. Grame.”

Eliza’s dark face turned red and haughty.  “I do not understand you, Aunt Emma.”

“Nay, I think you do understand me, my dear.  You have incautiously allowed yourself to fall into—­into an undesirable liking for Mr. Grame.  An unseemly liking, Eliza.”

“Unseemly!”

“Yes; because it has not been sought.  Cannot you see, Eliza, how he instinctively recedes from it? how he would repel it were he less the gentleman than he is?  Child, I shrink from saying these things to you, but it is needful.  You have good sense, Eliza, keen discernment, and you might see for yourself that it is not to you Mr. Grame’s love is given—­or ever will be.”