He held out his hand to her abruptly, and Molly, with a burning face, gave him both her own.

“I can’t think how I did it,” she said, in a low voice.  “But I—­I am not sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Wyverton, and he stooped with an odd little smile, and kissed first one and then the other of the hands he held.

* * * * *

No one, save Phyllis, knew of the contract made on that golden morning in June on the edge of the flowering meadows; and even to Phyllis only the bare outlines of the interview were vouchsafed.

That she was free, and that Lord Wyverton felt no bitterness over his disappointment, he himself assured her.  He uttered no word of reproach.  He did not so much as hint that she had given him cause for complaint.  He was absolutely composed, even friendly.

He barely mentioned her sister’s interference in the matter, and he said nothing whatsoever as to her singular method of dealing with the situation.  It was Molly who briefly imparted this action of hers, and her manner of so doing did not invite criticism.

Thereafter she went back to her multitudinous duties without an apparent second thought, shouldering her burden with her usual serenity; and no one imagined for a moment what tumultuous hopes and doubts underlay her calm exterior.

Lord Wyverton left the place, and the general aspect of things returned to their usual placidity.

The announcement of the engagement of the vicar’s eldest daughter to Jim Freeman, the doctor’s assistant in the neighbouring town, created a small stir among the gossips.  It was generally felt that, good fellow as young Freeman undoubtedly was, pretty Phyllis Neville might have done far better for herself.  A rumour even found credence in some quarters that she had actually refused the wealthy aristocrat for Jim Freeman’s sake, but there were not many who held this belief.  It implied a foolishness too sublime.

Discussion died down after Phyllis’s return to her work.  It was understood that her marriage was to take place in the winter.  Molly’s hands were, in consequence, very full, and she had obviously no time to talk of her sister’s choice.  There was only one visitor who ever called at the Vicarage in anything approaching to state.  Her visits usually occurred about twice a year, and possessed something of the nature of a Royal favour.  This was Lady Caryl, the Lady of the Manor, in whose gift the living lay.

This lady had always shown a marked preference for the vicar’s second daughter.

“Mary Neville,” she would remark to her friends, “is severely handicapped by circumstance, but she will make her mark in spite of it.  Her beauty is extraordinary, and I cannot believe that Providence has destined her for a farmer’s wife.”

It was on a foggy afternoon at the end of November that Lady Caryl’s carriage turned in at the Vicarage gates for the second state call of the year.