d Mrs. Prime before Rachel opened the cottage door, and
interrupted them. It was then nearly half-past ten. Rachel had never
been so late before. The last streak of the sun's reflection in the
east had vanished, the last ruddy line of evening light had gone, and
the darkness of the coming night was upon them. The hour was late for
any girl such as Rachel Ray to be out alone.

There had been a long discussion between the mother and the
elder daughter; and Mrs. Ray, believing implicitly in the last
announcements made to her, was full of fears for her child. The
utmost rigour of self-denying propriety should have been exercised
by Rachel, whereas her conduct had been too dreadful almost to be
described. Two or three hours since Mrs. Ray had fondly promised that
she would trust her younger daughter, and had let her forth alone,
proud in seeing her so comely as she went. An idea had almost entered
her mind that if the young man was very steady, such an acquaintance
might perhaps be not altogether wicked. But everything was changed
now. All the happiness of her trust was gone. All her sweet hopes
were crushed. Her heart was filled with fear, and her face was pale
with sorrow.

"Why should she know where he was to be?" Dorothea had asked. "But he
is not at Exeter;--he is here, and she was with him." Then the two
had sat gloomily together till Rachel returned. As she came in there
was a little forced laugh upon her face. "I am late; am I not?" she
said. "Oh, Rachel, very late!" said her mother. "It is half-past
ten," said Mrs. Prime. "Oh, Dolly, don't speak with that terrible
voice, as though the world were coming to an end," said Rachel; and
she looked up almost savagely, showing that she was resolved to
fight.

But it may be as well to say a few words about the firm of Messrs.
Bungall and Tappitt, about the Tappitt family generally, and about
Mr. Luke Rowan, before any further portion of the history of that
evening is written.

Why there should have been any brewery at all at Baslehurst, seeing
that everybody in that part of the world drinks cider, or how, under
such circumstances, Messrs. Bungall and Tappitt had managed to live
upon the proceeds of their trade, I cannot pretend to say. Baslehurst
is in the heart of the Devonshire cider country. It is surrounded
by orchards, and farmers talk there of their apples as they do of
their cheese in Cheshire, or their wheat in Essex, or their sheep in
Lincolnshire. Men drink c