were gravely polite; Eleonora very silent; and as soon as the meal was over, Rosamond declared that she should not come out to stand planning in the cold; and though Herbert would have liked nothing better in that company, his Rector carried him off to arrange an Advent service in a distant hamlet; Anne’s horse came to the door; and only Joanna remained to accompany the gardening party, except that Raymond came out with them to mark the limits of permissible alteration.

“How unchanged!” exclaimed Lady Tyrrell.  “Time stands still here; only where is the grand old magnolia?  How sweet it used to be!”

“Killed by the frost,” said Raymond, shortly, not choosing to undergo a course of reminiscences, and chafing his wife by his repressive manner towards her guest.  When he had pointed out the bed of Americans that were to be her boundary, he excused himself as having letters to finish; and as he went away Cecil gave vent to her distaste to the old shrubs and borders, now, of course, at their worst—­the azaleas mere dead branches, the roses with a few yellow night-capped buds still lingering, and fuchsias with a scanty bell or two.

Jenny fought for their spring beauty, all the more because Lady Tyrrell was encouraging the wife to criticize the very things she had tried to sentimentalize over with the husband; but seeing that she was only doing harm, she proposed a brisk walk to Eleonora, who gladly assented, though her sister made a protest about damp, and her being a bad walker.  The last things they heard was Cecil’s sigh, “It is all so shut in, wherever there is level ground, that the bazaar would be impossible.”

“I should hope so!” muttered Jenny.

“What do you mean to do about this bazaar?” asked Eleonora, as they sped away.

“I don’t know.  Those things so often go off in smoke, that I don’t make up my mind till they become imminent.”

“I am afraid this will go on,” said Eleonora.  “Camilla means it and she always carries out her plans; I wish I saw the right line.”

“About that?”

“About everything.  It seems to me that there never was any one so cut off from help and advice as I am;” then, as Joanna made some mute sign of sympathy, “I knew you would understand; I have been longing to be with you, for there has been no one to whom I could speak freely since I left Rockpier.”

“And I have been longing to have you.  Mamma would have asked you to stay with us before, only we had the house full.  Can’t you come now?”

“You will see that I shall not be allowed.  It is of no use to think about it!” said the girl, with a sigh.  “Here, let us get out of this broad path, or she may yet come after us—­persuade Mrs. Charnock Poynsett it is too cold to stand about—­anything to break up a tete-a-tete.”

Jenny saw she really was in absolute fear of pursuit; but hardly yet understood the nervous haste to turn into a not very inviting side-path, veiled by the trees, whose wet leaves were falling.