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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.

Molly received the visitor alone. Her mother was upstairs with a bronchial attack.

Lady Caryl, handsome, elderly, and aristocratic, entered the shabby drawing-room with her most gracious air. She sat and talked for a while upon various casual subjects. Molly poured out the tea and responded with her usual cheery directness. Lady Caryl did not awe her. Her father was wont to remark that Molly was impudent as a robin and brave as a lion.

After a slight pause in the conversation Lady Caryl turned from parish affairs with an abruptness somewhat characteristic of her, but by no means impetuous.

“Did you ever chance to meet Earl Wyverton, my dear Mary?” she inquired. “He spent a few days here in the summer.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “He came to see us several times.”

The beautiful colour rose slightly as she replied, but she looked straight at her questioner with a directness almost boyish.

“Ah!” said Lady Caryl. “I was away from the Manor at the time, or I should have asked him to stay there. I have always liked him.”

“We like him too,” said Molly, simply.

“He is a gentleman,” rejoined Lady Caryl, with emphasis. “And that makes his misfortune the more regrettable.”

“Misfortune!” echoed Molly.

She started a little as she uttered the word–so little that none but a very keen observer would have noticed it.

“Ah!” said Lady Caryl. “You have not heard, I see. I suppose you would not hear. But it has been the talk of the town. They say he has lost practically every penny he possessed over some gigantic American speculation, and that to keep his head above water he will have to sell or let every inch of land he owns. It is particularly to be regretted, as he has always taken his responsibilities seriously. Indeed, there are many who regard his principles as eccentrically fastidious. I am not of the number, my dear Mary. Like you, I have a high esteem for him, and he has my most heartfelt sympathy.”

She ceased to speak, and there was a little pause.

“How dreadful!” Molly said then. “It must be far worse to lose a lot of money than to be poor from the beginning.”

The flush had quite passed from her face. She even looked slightly pale.

Lady Caryl laid down her cup and rose. “That would be so, no doubt,” she said. “I think I shall try to persuade him to come to us at the end of the year. And your sister is to be married in January? It will be quite an event for you all. I am sure you are very busy–even more so than usual, my dear Mary.”