the evening of the fox-hunt, when Maryllia’s body had been found in Farmer’s Thorpe’s field.  Then, one of Adam Frost’s eldest boys had noticed him talking to the Reverend Putwood Leveson at the entrance of the park surrounding Badsworth Hall, but since that time he had not shown himself, and enquiries at his cottage failed to elicit other information than that he was ‘not at home.’  The people generally suspected him of being ‘in hiding,’ and they were not far wrong.

One day, soon after her first move from her bedroom to the morning room, and when she had grown in part accustomed to being carried up and down, Maryllia suddenly expressed a wish to hear the village choir.

“I should like the children to come and sing to me,”—­she said to Cicely—­“You remember the hymn they sang on that one Sunday I went to church last summer—­’The Lord is my Shepherd’?  You sang it with them, Cicely,—­and it was so very sweet!  Couldn’t they come up here to the Manor and sing it to me again?”

“Of course they could if you wish it, darling!” said Cicely, blinking away the tears that were only too ready to fall at every gentle request proffered by her friend—­“And I’m sure they will!  I’ll go now and tell Miss Eden you want them.”

“Yes, do!” said Maryllia, eagerly—­“And, Cicely,—­wait a minute!  Have you seen Mr. Walden at all since I’ve been ill?”

“No,”—­replied Cicely, quietly—­“He has not been very well himself, so Dr. Forsyth says,—­and he has not been about much except to perform service on Sundays, and to visit his sick parishioners—–­”

“Well, I am a sick parishioner!” said Maryllia—­“Why should he leave me out?”

Cicely looked at her very tenderly.

“I don’t think he has left you out, darling!  I fancy he has thought of you a great deal.  He has sent to enquire after you every day.”

Maryllia was silent for a minute.  Then, with her own quaint little air of authority and decision, she said—­

“Well!—­I want to see him now.  In fact, I must see him,—­not only as a friend, but as a clergyman.  Because you know I may not live very long—–­”

“Maryllia!” cried Cicely, passionately—­“Don’t say that!”

“I won’t, if you don’t like it!” and Maryllia smiled up at her from her pillows—­“But I think I should like to speak to Mr. Walden.  So, as you will be passing the rectory on your way to fetch Miss Eden and the children, will you go in and ask him if he will come up and see me this afternoon?”

“I will!” And Cicely ran out of the room with a sense of sudden, inexplicable excitement which she could scarcely conceal.  Quickly putting on her hat and cloak, she almost flew down the Manor avenue, regardless of the fact that it was raining dismally, and only noticing that there was a scent of violets in the air, and one or two glimmerings of yellow crocus peeping like golden spears through the wet mould.  Arriving at the rectory, she forgot that she had not seen Walden at all since Maryllia’s accident, and scarcely waiting for the maid Hester to announce her, she hastened into his study with startling suddenness.  Springing from his chair, he confronted her with wild imploring eyes, and a face from which ever vestige of colour had fled.