school, and her hair, that always looked scanty on the temples, was done up into a knot behind, and one of her eye-teeth had decayed, they thought it well to send her back to the farm. But old Mr. Barton had not talked to her in vain, and she went home with a smothered resentment in her heart that had a touch of horror in it towards the stranger, and a shrinking she could never overcome towards his child. She kept herself well in hand, it is true, and, except that he could never get behind her reserve and somewhat snappy manner, she and Mr. Vincent got on pretty well together, seeing that they inhabited the same house. She developed into a thrifty young woman with a distinct capacity for that state of life in which she found herself, and with dissent so strong within her that, within a month of her going back to Woodside Farm for good, she had begun secretly to store such little sums as she could honestly consider her own in order some day to build a chapel at Chidhurst. Meanwhile, she contented herself with the somewhat dreary service at the little church on the hill.

To Mrs. Vincent the years after her marriage were the happiest of her life. She gave her husband a quiet, self-contained worship that expressed itself in many creature comforts, for which, from sheer blindness, he was never sufficiently grateful. But he knew that he was the whole world to her, and, as time went on, this knowledge was not untouched with dismay at finding that sometimes he wanted more intellectual sympathy than she was able to give him. But she never guessed this, and after her little Margaret was born it seemed sometimes as if only tears would prevent her joy from being more than she could bear.

It was during these years that Hannah saw her opportunity, and little by little managed to govern her mother and every one on the farm with the exception of Mr. Vincent. Even Margaret was made to feel that Hannah was mistress of the situation, and the putting on of a best frock or the arranging of a little holiday could not be done peacefully without asking her consent.

IV

Mr. Vincent and his daughter drew very near together as the time came when each from a different stand-point unconsciously hankered after companionship. She read books with him, and did tasks that she found delightful, since they kept her a prisoner in the window-seat of the best parlor, whence, looking up, she could see him bending over his papers. He even arranged to take her to Guildford twice a week, so that she might have a music-lesson from the doctor's widow, who earned a modest living by teaching. And on her seventeenth birthday he gave her a piano. Its arrival was quite an event at Woodside Farm.

"It will be a rare thing to hear Margaret play," Mrs. Vincent said, as she watched it being put into place.

But Hannah was half contemptuous. "It would have been better to have bought a good harmonium," she snorted; "it might have been useful some day—" She broke off abruptly, for none knew of her secret store towards the chapel; and there was no occasion to speak of it, since it had not yet reached the modest sum of twenty pounds. Money had perplexed Hannah a good deal of late; there was the desire to put it away for the pious dream of her soul, and the womanly impulse to spend it on finery—hard, prim finery. For at Petersfield there dwelt a thriving young house agent, in a good way of business, smart-looking and fair mustached, and possessed of a far-seeing mother, who had suggested that Hannah would have the farm and a bit of money some day, and make a thrifty wife into the bargain. This accounted for what might be called an investigation visit that Mr. Garratt paid her grandparents one Sunday afternoon when Hannah was at Petersfield, and his asking her to take him across the field to see a tree that had been struck by lightning the previous fortnight. Afterwards he had been pressed to stay for tea, and his tone was significant when he remarked on leaving that he had enjoyed himself very much, and hoped to get over to Chidhurst one Sunday for the morning service, and to see the grave of his aunt Amelia, who was buried there. Hannah being too grim—it was counted for shyness—to say anything pleasant for herself, old Mrs. Barton had told him, in a good business-like tone, that when he went he had better look out for Hannah and her mother, and walk back with them for dinner at the farm. This was two months ago, but still Hannah waited patiently, thinking that if he appeared it might be as well to hear what he had to say, since by this time she was well on in her twenties—at the fag end of them, in fact—and marriage was one of the possibilities to be considered in life. Thus every week brought its excitement to her, and as yet its disappointment.

Sunday brought its excitement for Margaret, too; but it was a happy one. For when the country folk were sheltered in the church or busy with those things that kept them out of sight she and her father had their best time together. Then it was that they loitered about the deserted fields and out-buildings, or went up to the great beech woods standing high behind the farm, and watched the still landscape round them, just as in the first years of his coming Gerald Vincent had watched it alone from the porch. They called the beech wood their cathedral—the great elms and beeches and closely knit oak-trees made its roof and the columns of its aisles—and it seemed as if in their hearts they celebrated a silent service there to a mysterious God who had made joy and sorrow and all the beauty of the earth and given it to humanity for good or ill. In a sense, Margaret had no other religion. Her father said that when she was old enough to understand and think for herself she could make her own beliefs or unbeliefs, meanwhile she need only remember to tell the truth, to do nothing that would cause another pain, and to help those nearest to her, never considering their deserts, but only their needs.

Gradually Mr. Vincent grew uneasy concerning life at the farm. For himself he was content enough, a little longer he could be content for Margaret; but afterwards? Besides, a reaction comes to all things, and now and then when he saw the far-off look in her eyes and heard the eager note in her voice—a sweet, eager note like that of a bird at dawn—he felt the ghost of old desires stirring within him, and an uneasy longing to see the world again, so that he might know what manner of place Margaret would some day find it. It came upon him with dismay that she was growing up, that this tall girl of over seventeen would soon be a woman, and that she was going to be beautiful. Pale generally, and almost haughty looking, dreams in her eyes, and gold in the brown of her hair, and a mouth that had her mother's sweet, curved lips. A girl's face and simple, but eager and even thoughtful, the impulses of youth characterized her still, but womanhood was on its way, and now and then, in spite of her happy laugh, her blue eyes looked as if unconsciously they knew that tragedy dwelt somewhere in the world, and feared lest they should meet it. But as yet Hannah's scoldings were the only trouble that had beset her. These were not to be taken lightly, for as she grew older Hannah's tone became harsher, her manner more dominant, and the shrinking from Margaret and her father, that she had always felt, did not grow less. Margaret bore it all fairly well, sometimes resisting or passionately protesting that she would run away from the farm and the scold who had taken its whole direction into her hands, and at others hiding herself in one of the lofts till the storm had passed. When it was over she crept out to her