ty well, till some eleven years ago,
when our boy was born, though I don't think we ever quite understood
each other. She never got her health back after that, and seven years
ago she died. I remember it was on a night wonderfully like last
night--mist first, then storm. The boy died a few years afterwards. I
thought it would have broken Beatrice's heart; she has never been the
same girl since, but always full of queer ideas I don't pretend to
follow.

"And as for the life I've had of it here, Mr. Bingham, you wouldn't
believe it if I was to tell you. The living is small enough, but the
place is as full of dissent as a mackerel-boat of fish, and as for
getting the tithes--well, I cannot, that's all. If it wasn't for a bit
of farming that I do, not but what the prices are down to nothing, and
for what the visitors give in the season, and for the help of Beatrice's
salary as certificated mistress, I should have been in the poor-house
long ago, and shall be yet, I often think. I have had to take in a
border before now to make both ends meet, and shall again, I expect.

"And now I must be off up to my bit of a farm; the old sow is due to
litter, and I want to see how she is getting on. Please God she'll
have thirteen again and do well. I'll order the fly to be here at five,
though I shall be back before then--that is, I told Elizabeth to do so.
She has gone out to do some visiting for me, and to see if she can't
get in two pounds five of tithe that has been due for three months. If
anybody can get it it's Elizabeth. Well, good-bye; if you are dull and
want to talk to Beatrice, she is up and in there. I daresay you will
suit one another. She's a very queer girl, Beatrice, quite beyond me
with her ideas, and it was a funny thing her holding you so tight, but
I suppose Providence arranged that. Good-bye for the present, Mr.
Bingham," and this curious specimen of a clergyman vanished, leaving
Geoffrey quite breathless.

It was half-past two o'clock, and the doctor had told him that he could
see Miss Granger at three. He wished that it was three, for he was tired
of his own thoughts and company, and naturally anxious to renew his
acquaintance with the strange girl who had begun by impressing him so
deeply and ended by saving his life. There was complete quiet in the
house; Betty, the maid-of-all-work, was employed in the kitchen, both
the doctors had gone, and Elizabeth and her father were out. To-day
there was no wind, it ha