e scarcely knew what it was to have an idle minute. An extreme
rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family.
When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with
them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth's character, that he
was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in
London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with
her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be
spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention
of it unavoidable.

Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come;
but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from
Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was
followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals
with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep
out.

Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses,
when the letter arrived.

"But that's absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was
explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are
here. Besides, he wouldn't get a room in the village. And he oughtn't to
work if he's overworked."

"But perhaps he doesn't want to see so much of us," Mary thought to
herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth
for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting
roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket.

"If Ralph were here, he'd find this very dull," Mary thought, with a
little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong
way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and
while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright
within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was
pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed
in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to
interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk
and put her hand on his arm.

"A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose.

"Eh, dear?" said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an
angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.

"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth's roses--I hope you
asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn't li