The vicar came in with his face all aglow with excitement and delight; his wife looked up at him quickly, she saw that something unusual and of a pleasant character had happened.

“My dear Marion, we must both thank our good friend, Sir John.  I am happy to tell you that he has consented to restore the chancel.”

“Oh, Sir John, how can we ever thank you enough!” cried Marion, coming forward breathlessly and pressing his hands in eager gratitude.  Sir John looked as if he didn’t want to be thanked, but he glanced towards the writing-table.  Vera’s back was turned; she made no sign of having heard.

“I am sure I had given up all hopes of it altogether,” continued the vicar.  “You gave such an unqualified refusal when I spoke to you about it before, I never dreamt that you would be induced to change your mind.”

“Some one—­I mean—­I thought it over—­and—­and it was presented to my notice—­in another light,” stammered Sir John, somewhat confusedly.

“And it is most kind, most generous of you to allow it to be done in my own way, according to the plans I had wished to follow.”

“Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likely to do.  Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better to leave it entirely in your hands.”

“Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?”

“Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr. Daintree; I can’t wait just now.”

He was standing irresolute in the middle of the room.  He looked again wistfully at Vera’s back.  Was it possible that she was not going to give him one word, one look, when surely she must know by whose influence he had been induced to consent to rebuild the chancel!

Almost in despair he moved to the door, and just as he reached it, when his hand was already on the handle, she looked up.  Her eyes, all softened with pleasure and gratitude, nay, almost with tenderness, met his.  He stopped suddenly short.

“Miss Nevill, might I ask you to walk with me as far as the clerk’s cottage?  I—­I forget which it is!”

It was the lamest and most blundering excuse.  Any six-year-old child in the village could have pointed out the cottage to him.  Mrs. Daintree looked up in astonishment.  Vera blushed rosy red; Eustace, man-like, saw nothing, and began eagerly,

“I am walking that way myself; we can go together——­” Suddenly his coat tails were violently pulled from behind.  “Quite impossible, Eustace; I want you at home for the next hour,” says Marion, quietly standing by his side, with a look of utter innocence upon her face.  The vicar, almost throttled by the violence of the assault upon his garments, perceived that, in some mysterious manner, he had said something he ought not to have said.  He deemed it wisest to subside into silence.

Vera rose from the writing-table.  “I will go and put my hat on,” she said, quietly, and left the room.