him in astonishment. How did he know her name; who was he?
He was looking at her with such a penitent and distressed expression,
that for the first time she noticed what a kind face it was. Then, before
she could answer him, she saw her brother-in-law over the paling of the
vicarage garden, coming towards them.

The stranger saw him, too, and lifted his hat to her.

"Good-bye," he said, rather hastily; "I did not mean to offend you; don't
be angry about it;" and, before she could say a word, he turned quickly
down the churchyard through the lych-gate into the road, and was gone.

"Vera," said Eustace Daintree, coming leisurely up to her through the
garden gate, "how on earth do you come to be talking to Sir John; has he
been saying anything to you about the chancel?"

"_Who_ was it? _who_ did you say?" cried Vera, aghast.

"Why, Sir John Kynaston, to be sure. Did you not know it was he?"

She was thunderstruck. "Are you quite sure?" she faltered.

"Why, of course! I saw him only last night, you know. I wonder why he
went off in such a hurry when he saw me?"

Vera was walking silently down the garden towards the house by his side.
The thought in her mind was, "If that was Sir John Kynaston, who then is
the photograph I found in the writing-table drawer?"

"What did he say to you, Vera? How came you to be talking to him?"
pursued her brother-in-law.

"I only let him into the church. I did not know who he was. I told him
the chancel ought to be restored--by himself."

Eustace Daintree looked dismayed.

"How very unfortunate. It will, perhaps, make him still more decided to
do nothing."

Vera smiled a little to herself. "I hope not, Eustace," was all she said.
But although she said no word of it to him, she knew at her heart that
his chancel would be restored for him.

Late that night Vera sat alone by her fireside, and thought over her
morning's adventure; and once again she said to herself, with a little
regretful sigh, "Whose, then, was the photograph?" But she put the
thought away from her.

After all, she said to herself, it made no difference. He was still Sir
John Kynaston of Kynaston Hall, and just as well worth a woman's while to
marry. She had made some mistake, that was all; and the real Sir John was
not the least romantic or interesting to look at, but Kynaston Hall
belonged to him all the same.

They were not very exalted or very much to be admired, these dreams of
Vera's girlhood. But neithe