uousness,
while he watches her expressive features, a new strange thrill at his
heart.

What if on this summer holiday, among the clover and the daisies, he
has discovered the one spotless soul of his life--a fresh,
unsophisticated creature of Nature's noblest and purest art!

At last they are in sight of the old farmhouse which Eleanor calls
home. It is a picturesque spot, and Philip stops admiringly to take in
the beauty of the rural scene.

"So you live there in that quiet abode?" he said thoughtfully.

"Yes. I am sorry to-day is over. It has not only been a holiday for
the children, but half the village. The labourers are to have a dinner
to-night and----"

She paused. The labourers and the children are so far from her mind at
this moment.

"I shall see you again," he whispers.

"Where and when?" asks Eleanor, feigning surprise.

"To-morrow in this cornfield on our left. I shall walk past."

"Like Boaz, and Ruth will be gleaning," she replies coyly.

"What will Boaz do?" he murmurs.

Eleanor lowers her eyes, and interlaces her fingers.

"I know," she replies confidently.

In the dim light Philip fancies that Eleanor is weaving some strange
witchcraft. He is drawn involuntarily nearer and snatching her hand
detains it a moment in both his. She is more beautiful than ever now
in the dim solitude of the deserted road. The simplicity of her daily
routine in the country farmhouse appeals to this man of the world, who
yearns for something different, something better in his aimless, empty
life--aimless because he has no one to work for, empty because there is
no one to love.

Eleanor's gentle presence in the gathering gloom quickens his
imagination. A picture wonderful and hitherto undreamed rises like a
sudden mirage before Philip's eyes.

He seems lost in contemplation.

"I have found her at last," he says, speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Who?" asks Eleanor under her breath.

"The Ideal Woman!" he replies.

The girl looks perplexed--she does not understand the phrase. New
Women and rational costumes have not yet penetrated to the depths of
Copthorne, so their counter-poising ideal is to her an unknown quantity.

Eleanor's ignorance of modernity constitutes a special charm in his
eyes. How sweet a privilege to build up this uncultured soul, to mould
her impressionable spirit! Philip is enamoured of the idea, he sees
such vast possibilities stretching out before him. Eleanor differed