admitted, in his way--a whole-hearted, single-minded gentleman. But the
barn he should not have.

She watched him depart, and then slowly emerged from her hiding-place.
Muriel, putting loving hands on her shoulders, looked at her with eyes
that mocked a little--tenderly.

"Yes, I know," said Diana--"I know. I shirked. Did he want the barn?"

"Oh no. I convinced him, the other day, you were past praying for."

"Was he shocked? 'It is a serious thing for women to throw themselves
across the path of progress,'" said Diana, in a queer voice.

Muriel looked at her, puzzled. Diana reddened, and kissed her.

"What did he want, then?"

"He came to ask whether you would take the visiting of Fetter Lane--and
a class in Sunday-school."

Diana gasped.

"What did you say?"

"Never mind. He went away quelled."

"No doubt he thought I ought to be glad to be set to work."

"Oh! they are all masterful--that sort."

Diana walked on.

"I suppose he gossiped about the election?"

"Yes. He has all sorts of stories--about the mines--and the Tallyn
estates," said Muriel, unwillingly.

Diana's look flashed.

"Do you believe he has any power of collecting evidence fairly? I don't.
He sees what he wants to see."

Mrs. Colwood agreed; but did not feel called upon to confirm Diana's
view by illustrations. She kept Mr. Lavery's talk to herself.

Presently, as the evening fell, Diana sitting under the limes watching
the shadows lengthen on the new-mown grass, wondered whether she had any
mind--any opinions of her own at all. Her father; Oliver; Mr. Ferrier;
Marion Vincent--she saw and felt with them all in turn. In the eyes of a
Mrs. Fotheringham could anything be more despicable?

The sun was sinking when she stole out of the garden with some flowers
and peaches for Betty Dyson. Her frequent visits to Betty's cottage were
often the bright spots in her day. With her, almost alone among the poor
people, Diana was conscious of no greedy curiosity behind the spoken
words. Yet Betty was the living chronicle of the village, and what she
did not know about its inhabitants was not worth knowing.

Diana found her white and suffering as usual, but so bubbling with news
that she had no patience either with her own ailments or with the
peaches. Waving both aside, she pounced imperiously upon her visitor,
her queer yellowish eyes aglow with "eventful living."

"Did you hear of old Tom Murthly dropping dead in the medder last
Thursda