She thrust the letter into her dress—­a viper would have been a more welcome guest—­and opened Geoffrey’s.

It told the same tale, but offered a different solution.  The tears started to her eyes as she read his offer to take her to him for good and all, and go away with her to begin life afresh.  It seemed a wonderful thing to Beatrice that he should be willing to sacrifice so much upon such a worthless altar as her love—­a wonderful and most generous thing.  She pressed the senseless paper to her heart, then kissed it again and again.  But she never thought of yielding to this great temptation, never for one second.  He prayed her to come, but that she would not do while her will remained.  What, she bring Geoffrey to ruin?  No, she had rather starve in the streets or perish by slow torture.  How could he ever think that she would consent to such a scheme?  Indeed she never would; she had brought enough trouble on him already.  But oh, she blessed him for that letter.  How deeply must he love her when he could offer to do this for her sake!

Hark! the children were waiting; she must go and teach.  The letter, Geoffrey’s dear letter, could be answered in the afternoon.  So she thrust it in her breast with the other, but closer to her heart, and went.

That afternoon as Mr. Granger, in a happy frame of mind—­for were not his debts paid, and had he not found a most convenient way of providing against future embarrassment?—­was engaged peaceably in contemplating his stock over the gate of his little farm buildings, he was much astonished suddenly to discover Owen Davies at his elbow.

“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” he said; “how quietly you must have come.”

“Yes,” answered Owen absently.  “The fact is, I have followed you because I want to speak to you alone—­quite alone.”

“Indeed, Mr. Davies—­well, I am at your service.  What is wrong?  You don’t look very well.”

“Oh, I am quite well, thank you.  I never was better; and there’s nothing wrong, nothing at all.  Everything is going to be bright now, I know that full surely.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Granger, again looking at him with a puzzled air, “and what may you want to see me about?  Not but what I am always at your service, as you know,” he added apologetically.

“This,” he answered, suddenly seizing the clergyman by the coat in a way that made him start.

“What—­my coat, do you mean?”

“Don’t be so foolish, Mr. Granger.  No, about Beatrice.”

“Oh. indeed, Mr. Davies.  Nothing wrong at the school, I hope?  I think that she does her duties to the satisfaction of the committee, though I admit that the arithmetic——­”

“No! no, no!  It is not about the school.  I don’t wish her to go to the school any more.  I love her, Mr. Granger, I love her dearly, and I want to marry her.”

The old man flushed with pleasure.  Was it possible?  Did he hear aright?  Owen Davies, the richest man in that part of Wales, wanted to marry his daughter, who had nothing but her beauty.  It must be too good to be true!