rtainly
return her visit and at once. Poor Mr. Meadowsweet--he was in the army
perhaps! I am quite glad to know there are people of our position here.
Did you say the army? Or perhaps a retired gentleman,--ah, I see
Catherine and Mabel coming back. Which was Mr. Meadowsweet's regiment?"

Poor Mr. Ingram's face grew absolutely pink.

"At some time in his life poor Meadowsweet may have served in the local
volunteers," he replied. "He was however, a--ah, Miss Catherine, what
tempting strawberries!"

The rector approached the open French window. Mrs. Bertram followed him
quickly.

"A--what?" she repeated. "The girls needn't know whom we are talking
about. A gentleman who lived on his private means?"

"A gentleman, madam, yes, a _gentleman_,--and he lived on his
means,--and he was wealthy. He kept a shop, a draper's shop, in the High
Street. Now, young ladies, young ladies--I call this wrong. _Such_
strawberries! Strawberries are my special weakness. Oh, it is cruel of
you to tempt me. I ought to be two miles from here now."

"You ought not," said Catherine in a gay voice. "You must sit with us on
the lawn, and drink our tea, and eat our strawberries."

Catherine had given a quick, lightning glance at her mother's face.
She saw a cloud there, she guessed the cause. She felt certain that her
mother would consult Mr. Ingram on the subject of Beatrice. Mr. Ingram's
report was not satisfactory. Delightful! She felt the imp of mischief
taking possession of her. She was a girl of many moods and tenses.
At times she could even be sombre. But when she chose to be gay and
fascinating she was irresistible. She was only seventeen, and in several
ways she was unconventional, even unworldly. In others, however, she was
a perfect woman of the world, and a match for her mother.

CHAPTER IV.

TWO LETTERS.

Northbury was so completely out of the world that it only had a postal
delivery twice a day. The early post was delivered at eight o'clock, so
that the good people of the place could discuss their little items of
outside news over their breakfast-tables. The postman went round with
his evening delivery at seven. He was not overwhelmed by the aristocracy
of Rosendale Manor, and, notwithstanding Mrs. Bertram's open annoyance,
insisted on calling there last. He said it suited him best to do so, and
what suited Sammy Benjafield he was just as determined to do, as Mrs.
Bertram was to carry out her own schemes.

Consequent