weet
conscious return to the familiar intercourse which these few disturbed
weeks had interrupted. He was a different man when he went back again
down Grange Lane. Once more the darkness was fragrant and musical about
him. When he was tired thinking of his affairs, he fell back upon the
memories of the evening, and Lucy's looks and the "us" and "we," which
were so sweet to his ears. To have somebody behind whom one can fall
back upon to fill up the interstices of thought--_that_ makes all the
difference, as Mr Wentworth found out, between a bright and a heavy
life.

When he opened the garden-door with his key, and went softly in in the
darkness, the Perpetual Curate was much surprised to hear voices among
the trees. He waited a little, wondering, to see who it was; and
profound was his amazement when a minute after little Rosa Elsworthy,
hastily tying her hat over her curls, came rapidly along the walk from
under the big walnut-tree, and essayed, with rather a tremulous hand,
to open the door. Mr Wentworth stepped forward suddenly and laid his
hand on her arm. He was very angry and indignant, and no longer the
benign superior being to whom Rosa was accustomed. "Whom have you been
talking to?" said the Curate. "Why are you here alone so late? What
does this mean?" He held the door close, and looked down upon her
severely while he spoke. She made a frightened attempt to defend
herself.

"Oh, please, I only came with the papers. I was talking to--Sarah,"
said the little girl, with a sob of shame and terror. "I will never do
it again. Oh, please, _please_, let me go! Please, Mr Wentworth, let
me go!"

"How long have you been talking to--Sarah?" said the Curate. "Did you
ever do it before? No, Rosa; I am going to take you home. This must
not happen any more."

"I will run all the way. Oh, don't tell my aunt, Mr Wentworth. I didn't
mean any harm," said the frightened creature. "You are not really
coming? Oh, Mr Wentworth, if you tell my aunt I shall die!" cried poor
little Rosa. But she was hushed into awe and silence when the curate
stalked forth, a grand, half-distinguished figure by her side, keeping
pace with her hasty, tremulous steps. She even stopped crying, in the
whirlwind of her feelings. What did he mean? Was he going to say
anything to her? Was it possible that he could like her, and be jealous
of her talk with--Sarah? Poor little foolish Rosa did not know what to
think. She had read a great many novels, and