Heart's Ease

HEART'S EASE Sherry Standen

Somebody had to look after Marcus Baron's little motherless daughter Diane. However it was with a good deal of reluctance that he engaged young Charity Tremayne for the job - and it was on one condition: that Charity should keep herself and the child well out of his way. For, since discovering his dead wife's treachery, Marcus despised and avoided all women. But he was an attractive man, and Charity could not remain unaware of him for long; besides, she desperately wanted little Diane to have the father's love she needed. Charity herself, like her name, had love and to spare for all the world - but would Marcus ever want it?

CHAPTER ONE SLOWLY, the dark-purple clouds of night were dispersing out of the sky. Already a faint tinge of pearly pink, like the interior of a mother-of-pearl shell, fringed the east, bringing the dawn. To the two men kneeling in the stables it was still night—black, dark, never-ending night. Engaged in the age-long struggle between death and man's determination and will to live, time had no meaning to them. In the harsh glare of the naked electric light, Marcus Baron's taut brown face was. covered with beads of sweat, that stood out with the fierce effort he was making. The man's voice was in direct contrast to the sombre harshness of his profile. No one but his beasts ever heard that tone nowadays. It was soft and tender, like black ring velvet slithering softly through white hands. "Come, my beauty, my lass; work hard, my beauty; press down, lass." The mare, lying in her clean straw bed, heard her master's voice, but she was too weak to obey him. Danny Pedder shook his head dolefully. " Best set on the little 'un, master—reckon Lass be too far gone to save. She -" His master cut him short fiercely, " Shut your mouth, Danny! We'll save 'em both. Get that rope from the loft. We'll have to tie it round the colt's forefeet; it's twisted inside her somehow. . . . She's too weak to make the effort herself." Marcus was stripping off his shirt as he spoke, bending over the mare.

Danny scrambled up the ladder. He knew better than to argue with the boss at any time; certainly not now, when Baron was torn with anxiety. But Danny was an old countryman, wise in Nature's' ways. He had assisted at the eternal mystery of the birth of new young creatures too often not to know when death was near. He knew, though, that Marcus Baron wouldn't admit defeat until the very end. It was warm in the stable. The clean, musty odour of straw and hay, mingled with the chaff stored in the loft, mixed with the pungent scent of antiseptic. The muscles rippled across the young farmer's back; he was straining every nerve and sinew to bring the young colt into the world, so that he could concentrate on the mare. At last... the miracle of birth was accomplished, the pretty little colt lay on the mussed straw. Danny's hand went out to stroke the wet coat admiringly. "Ah, he's a beauty; him's a proper chestnut colour." His master was intent on pouring brandy down the mare's throat. But all in vain. Proud Lass was dead. Marcus slumped back on his heel. He stared at his pet dully. No more would he ride her in the hunting-field. No more would she whinny delightedly at the sight of him, and softly nuzzle in his pocket for the sugar that was always there. Once again something that he loved lay dead at his feet... Marcus checked his thoughts. It was seldom that he allowed them to wander back over the past. The corroding, searing bitterness that was the constant companion of his soul, day and night, was reminder enough. He got to his feet. "Clear up, Danny, and then get your breakfast. Tell young Tim to come down to Long Meadow when he's

finished oiling the drill. He can give me a hand with those wire fences." Outside the stables, Marcus filled his lungs with the cool morning air. It was cowardly, perhaps, leaving it all to Danny, but he couldn't bear to see the disposal of his mare, and just now he couldn't bear to handle the colt that had cost Proud Lass her life. He stopped at the gate leading into the garden. Quite often the man did this, for Raven's Rest was at its best viewed from just there. It was a long, low, rambling farmhouse, built of white stone. Four of the chimneys were slightly crooked, giving the house a quaint air. The terrace in front of the house sloped down to a smooth, well- kept green lawn. Two large beech-trees stood at either side of the lawn, like giant sentinels. To the right, down six well-worn steps, there was a quaint sunken garden. Marcus Baron loved his home and his land with a deep, inarticulate love. His father and his father before him had been farmers. The love for his own earth was in his blood—part of him. The young farmer had turned to the soil more and more during these last four years—drawing from the earth comfort and sustenance that he couldn't get from the people around him. Marcus rested his forearms on the top of the gate. God! he was tired; his very bones felt weary. It wasn't only this night with the mare. His insomnia had been growing steadily worse; and latterly a kind of restlessness had seized him. His tired eyes watched the smoke steadily ascending from one of the chimneys. It was only six-thirty; but Sophie, bless her, was up already, with a fire going.

The kitchen was, at least in the eyes of Baron, one of the most attractive rooms in the house, perhaps because he had spent so much time there as a child. It was large and spacious. The floor red-tiled, well polished; the walls were distempered pale cream; one long brown oak beam ran across the ceiling the entire length of the room. The big, black range was old- fashioned, but Sophie refused to cook on any modern innovation. She was bending over the fire as Marcus came in. As usual, he untied her apron-strings; since he was a boy he'd always done that, every time he came into the kitchen. She was the only person nowadays who saw even a glimpse of the old Marcus Baron. "That smells good, Sophie; but I don't think I want very much, I don't feel particularly hungry." Sophie seized the frying-pan briskly. "You set down at that table and do as you're told, Master Mark. You'll have porridge first and these after. You can't go on working and gallivanting off to the hunt without something inside you to keep you going." Marcus sat down at the table. "All right," he said wearily. "But get me a whisky and soda first, please." Sophie stood with arms akimbo surveying him steadily. "No, I won't. You're drinkin' more than is good for you, Master Mark, and whisky at six o'clock in the morning isn't good for man or beast. You eat your breakfast, and have a nice hot cup of tea instead." Marcus jerked up his head, prepared to blast her fiercely with biting words. Sophie gazed back at him calmly.

The man gave it up, and pulled the plate of porridge towards him. " Oh, all right, give me a cup of tea, then; your panacea for all ills. I don't know why the devil I let you bully me, though." It was quiet in the kitchen while he ate. Sophie sat in her rockingchair by the fire, her old hands folded in her lap. She had been Marcus's nurse, and now' she ran Raven's Rest practically singlehanded, except for her niece and a young girl who came up from the village. Baron, one foot on the fender, filled his pipe, gazing abstractedly into the glowing range. Sophie watched her boy without his knowledge. She examined his face anxiously, lovingly. The bitter lines about the man's mouth were deeply engraved, and there were hollows under his high cheekbones. It didn't look a very auspicious moment to talk seriously to him, but Sophie knew if she put the moment off any longer it might not occur again. "Master Mark," she said determinedly, " I've served you and yours a good number of years now— more'n I care to count. You were my nursling, and when your dear mother died, I promised her I'd bring you up a proper man. "An' so I have. Many's the time I've walloped you, hard though it was at times to resist your winning ways. An' I've loved you as though you were my own. But I've always spoke my mind as and when I thought fit, as you well know. "Miss Diane. . . . Master Mark, you can't go on like this, making out you don't know she's there; as though she didn't exist. 'Tisn't natural or human for a father to treat his child so—his own flesh and blood, too. I've left it so long, thinking you'd be coming to your senses one of these days, but.. ."

"I'm going up to change, Sophie; when Tom comes up for his breakfast tell him I want those pigs in Marlborough station by eleven o'clock." The loud closing of the kitchen door rang through the quiet room. Sophie stared at the door, her old eyes filming with unaccustomed tears. It was always the same these days. A body just couldn't get anywhere near him. It was just like beating your head against a stone wall. Well, she'd made up her mind to speak and speak she had. Much good it had done her or Miss Diane. As she cleared away the dishes Sophie's usually brisk step was much slower. Her loyal old heart was sorely troubled. Marcus swiftly finished dressing. The man shut Sophie's words off in that remote corner of his mind, along with the rest of the whole rotten business. The whisky he had gulped down on his way upstairs was glowing in his veins, but, as usual, it deepened his sardonic humour. Young Tim had a taste of it later, holding the staples to secure the barbed wire in place. "I hear you're courting Betty, young Tim," commented Marcus pleasantly—too pleasantly. Tim shifted from foot to foot uneasily, his comely young face reddening. " Well, sir, I s'pose in a manner of speaking we are walking out together." "You're a fool, Tim. Take my advice and don't have anything to do with women. They're rotten, the whole damn lot of them," Marcus said viciously, punctuating his words with violent blows from the hammer he held in his hand. " They're like an apple —a lovely,

smooth, firm, rosy apple: beautiful to look at, but when you take a bite the inside's eaten away with crawling maggots." "Beggin' your pardon, sir," Tim said respectfully, but sturdily, " Betty May's not like that." Marcus opened his mouth and closed it again. He shrugged his shoulders as though the subject was not worth bothering about. " You'll learn," he said tersely. The rest of the barbed-wire fence' was put up steadily, almost in silence. Tim was used to sombre silence from his boss; so were the rest of the staff at Raven's Rest. Marcus Baron was regarded as a just master, but hard. Only two people amongst them really loved him and weren't overawed by his manner. Sophie was one, and the other was old Eli, the shepherd. Eli was busy among his sheep, up in Forty Acres, when his master drew up in the car. Eli looked up; and calmly went on with his work. He was a noted local character, was Eli. He'd seen seventyfive summers, but his spare frame was far more upright than many a man half his age. The shepherd's finely shaped head was covered with thick white hair. His deep-set, dark eyes looked through his fellow men, and beyond them. Eli wore a mantle of calm, serene dignity. He certainly knew his job. Wisely Marcus left him alone, knowing the old shepherd had forgotten more about sheep than he would ever know. "How's it going, Eli?" The old man straightened his back. " Well enough, well enough. There be twenty new lambs, and more coming along to-night. I

just be having a look at old 'un ewe; I reckon she be good for twins." "Twins, eh, Eli? She had twins last year, didn't she?" "Aye, she did that. She's a right good old ewe. Has plenty of milk for 'em too. Only, do you see, she's liable to get a bit contrariwise now" and then." His master's lips twisted. " Ewes take after their human counterparts, apparently." Eli looked at him mildly. " Aye, master, there's good and bad and mild and wild in sheep, just as in us humans. The good Lord made it so, and I reckon He knew just what He was a-doing. It would be a samey world if we was all alike." Marcus's rare—very rare—slow, sweet smile illuminated his dark features. He laid his hand in a firm grasp on the old man's shoulder. " It's a pity there aren't a few more people like you in this sorry old world, Eli. . . . Well, I must be off: the hunt meets at eleven." "Bardwell's spinney; that's where you'll be finding the little old fox, master. I know." "Yes, you're possibly right; we're meeting at Barrowmead Court, and moving off in that direction." Eli's voice followed Baron as he strode across to his battered old shooting-brake." Reckon you'll miss Proud Lass to-day, master." Eli was right: he'd miss her—damnably. She'd been his own pet ever since she was a young filly. Her death was another particle of desolation added to the man's bitterness.

The spring air was like wine. Even Marcus felt his spirits rise: felt perhaps it was still good to be alive, on horseback, cantering along a leafy lane. Grey Sire jumped a gate. Baron could see a Ford- son tractor on the brow of the hill, busy drilling. Um, Sam Lane was way ahead putting in his corn. Still, he could work harder tomorrow and catch up . . . a day's hunting wasn't to be missed. Marcus was late: the drive was empty of people; only cars and horses stood there. He swung himself off, and tied Grey Sire to the hitching-post. He walked into the house without being announced; he knew where everybody would be: in the library drinking. A babel of voices greeted him as he opened the door, and clouds of tobacco smoke. Brown, the vet, spotted the young farmer first. " Ah, Marcus, I wondered if you'd be here. How's the mare?" . "Dead," Marcus replied tersely. "Oh, too bad! Still, you can never tell with these pedigree mares. Complications, I suppose. Um, thought so. Come and have a drink, old man; you look as though you need one. I've been up all night, too. Tonbridge's roan heifer slipped her calf—say when, old man—we had a hell of a job with her. Twice we got her cornered when she ..." "When you've finished ' talking shop, Freddie, perhaps I can have Marcus." Brown's eyes rested appreciatively on the woman who interrupted them; he watched her walk away, her hand resting intimately on Marcus Baron's arm.

Some fellows didn't know their luck: the vet would have given his right arm to have a looker like Sheila Martin fall for him the way she'd fallen for Baron; and Baron treated her like dirt, too. Freddie Brown gloomily finished his drink, but the subjects of his thoughts were entirely unconscious of him anyway. "Marcus, you haven't been near me for almost a month. Why have you been ignoring me? Am I so boring?" The woman's red mouth pouted. Sheila was very lovely. Tall, with a willowy figure, her sleek black hair drawn straight back from her temples into a knot on the nape of her white neck, the hard black bowler set straight on her dark head. Her eyes were dark and slumbrous and, possessing a matt white skin, she cleverly accentuated it by eschewing rouge and by the use of deep crimson lipstick. Baron's mouth twisted sardonically. Sheila was beautiful. She knew how to dress,, too. The other women in the room were wearing breeches and hacking-jackets, but not Sheila. Her black riding- habit fitted her exquisite figure perfectly, the high white stock showing up against her dark hair. Marcus sipped his drink, his eyes running over her almost insolently. " My dear Sheila, there are times when the very thought of a woman is boring to me. I thought you knew by now that when I want you I seek you out. The other times I prefer my—cattle." "But, Marcus, you said the last time we were together you thought I was- -" "Why do women always have to remind a man of things he once said?" Baron shrugged his shoulders. " What are words, anyway?"

Sheila looked at the man sulkily. " But, Marcus, I love you, I do love you. ..." Marcus set his glass down with a bang. " Spare me the dramatics. I want to see Spears... if you'll excuse me," he said, ironically polite. Sheila's mouth tightened ominously. She had been in love with Marcus for ages: she had even pursued the man after his marriage. When Gillian, his wife, died, her hopes had risen; but it was like trying to catch a will-o'-the-wisp. Sometimes he came to her and took her love and caresses, and then when she saw him again he alternately ignored her or was openly rude. Sheila vowed time and time again she had finished with him, she would go away, go abroad; but she knew she wouldn't. As long as Marcus wanted her sometimes, she would forget anything else that he did. Baron's thoughts were far away from any woman. This was the time he loved. The feel of a good horse under him, hounds, and the earth thundering past. The wind rushing by, stinging his ears, the hounds giving tongue, the thunder of hooves. At the end of the day Sheila Martin urged her horse over beside Grey Sire. "Come back to the house to dinner, Marcus," she coaxed. " Several of the others are coming. Freddie and Bill Carpenter. You needn't bother about going home to change." She laid her gloved hand on his. " Please, Marcus—I want you. . . ." The wind had whipped a lovely carmine into the clear pallor of her face. Marcus shrugged his shoulders wearily. After all, why not? This damned restlessness—maybe Sheila would keep it at bay. He gathered up the reins and wheeled his horse round.

"I'll come," he said briefly. "Hey, wait a minute, Marcus—come back. I want a word with you." The owner of the deep voice drew rein near them. Baron's dark face relaxed into a faint smile. Kit Harcombe was one of his few remaining friends, and one of the staunchest. She refused to be alienated by anything that he said or did. "Hello there, Kit. I didn't notice you before; I thought you were still in London, indulging in riotous living." "I arrived back late last flight—I want to talk to you, Marcus. Will you come back to dinner with me?" Sheila broke in impulsively, "No, Marcus, you can't; you promised to dine with us." The woman realised her mistake as soon as the words left her lips, even before the familiar scowl darkened the young farmer's features. His slow voice stung like a whip lash. "You take too much upon yourself, my sweet; since when have I given you leave to speak for me?" He turned abruptly to Kit. "Right, Kit, I'll come back with you now. You'll have to take me as I am, though, dirt and all." "That's O.K., Marcus. I'm in the same boat. You can clean up while I start on the dinner." She glanced back over her shoulder. Sheila still sat on her horse, gazing after them.

"Was it necessary to be quite so rude to Sheila? After all, you'd arranged to dine there -" Marcus shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "She'll get over it— she always does. She'll be fawning round me tomorrow like a dog round its master." He scowled. "Sheila presumes too much. She's like the rest of her sex: give them an inch and they'll take an acre." He flashed an oblique glance at Kit. " Present company always excepted, of course." Kit didn't answer. features, the cruel project at the back Perhaps, after all, business.

The proud, haughty lines of Marcus's dark set of his mouth, suddenly struck her. The of her mind appeared all at once ridiculous. she'd leave well alone and mind her own

They cantered the rest of the way in mutual silence. In the still loveliness of the April evening, Apple- tree Cottage looked quainter than ever. Kit referred to it whimsically as her " Hansel and Gretel" residence complete with witch—and indeed it did look like the gingerbread cottage of the fairy tale. The crooked windows were made of bull's-eye glass, wistaria and clematis climbed together over the small doorway; even the chimneys were crooked. As for the "witch", Kit Harcombe was plump, but she was tall, so that the effect as a whole was of a well-proportioned woman. Her iron-grey hair she kept short; her plain, humorous face was redeemed by a pair of twinkling grey eyes. Kit's usual mode of dress was slacks and sweaters, or breeches and jackets. She looked, indeed, the complete " county " type, and yet fifteen years ago Kit Harcombe was so much a part of London one could not imagine her elsewhere.

Her flat had been a veritable meeting-place for the artistic circles living in the nearby studios and boarding-houses. Every evening there gathered a crowd at the flat discussing art, religion—almost every subject under the sun; and in the centre always Kit, ever ready to listen to anyone's troubles, always good- humoured and tolerant, essentially cosmopolitan. It was after a very bad attack of influenza that the doctor told Kit that to regain and keep her health it was essential that she go away from the dust and smoke of town into the fresh country air. She raised a dismayed eyebrow at him. " My dear good man, can you imagine me in the country?" The doctor evenly went on putting his stethoscope in his bag. " I'd rather imagine you in the country than in your coffin, Kit." When she realised that he really meant what he said, with characteristic thoroughness Kit moved her goods and chattels to Apple-tree Cottage, lock, stock and barrel. Within a year she was as firmly settled as she had been in town. Everyone knew Kit, and nearly everyone liked her. There was. always someone dropping in at the cottage to listen to her shrewd, humorous comments. . . . Kit installed Marcus in an armchair in the lounge with a whisky and soda. " When you've finished that, my lad, you can come out into the kitchen and help cook your meal." Kit glanced up as Marcus lounged through the kitchen door " I thought we'd have soup first, then omelette-a-la-tomato, and biscuits and cheese. Suit you? Right. Open the soup, Marcus, while I fry the croquettes. Look, there's the tin, just above your head—the one labelled ' Finest Chicken Soup '." She watched Marcus beneath her lashes. He was concentrating on the tin, trying to use her patent tin- opener.

She spooned the soup into the plates. She'd wait until Marcus was fed and replenished, and then she would broach her idea over the coffee. . .. Marcus laid down his knife and fork with a sigh of fulfilment. He wiped his mouth with the gay napkin. " Whatever else you can do, Kit, you can certainly cook an omelette." "Good! glad you enjoyed it. Pass the cheese, will you, please, Marcus? Then you can carry the coffee into the lounge." Marcus rose lithely. " You always make me work when I come to see you, woman," he grumbled good-humouredly. "Good job, too—keeps you from getting too fat." The man's laugh—the first she'd heard from him for a long time— flooded back from the kitchen. " Fat! ye gods! " He handed the coffee to Kit with a mock ceremonial bow, pushed forward her easy- chair. " Madame, your servant. . . ." They sat in silence drinking their coffee. It was simple to fall into an easy, companionable silence with Kit—she was an easy person to be with altogether, Marcus reflected. He looked across at her tall figure with affection. " How's the new novel going?" Kit placed her cup on the arm of her chair. " Not too badly— smoke if you want to. I've got the heroine in rather a fix, though, and at the moment I can't seem to extricate the girl."

Kit's writing was a source of great amusement to her friends. After the first week in the country she had cast around for something to do to fill up the time. Kit discovered that she had a flair for writing thrillers, and she entered into it with her usual zest. The pages of her novels were filled with deep-eyed villains and beautiful but impossibly dumb heroines. The books enjoyed a popular sale. Kit made a face at him. " I know it's tripe, without you pointing it out to me, my lad; but as long as I'm paid for it—well, at least it keeps a roof over my head." She looked round the room with pride; not without reason. It was a long, low room. The perpendicular- striped wallpaper, in a pale shade of cafe-au-lait, helped to give it height. The floor was covered with a grey carpet; two fawn Indian rugs lay, one by the fireplace, one in front of the windows. The furniture was Regency style, and in one corner stood Kit's latest acquisition—a hi-fi. She was like a child with a new toy. "I bought two new records when I was in town yesterday," Kit boasted. " Would you like to hear them, Marcus?" "What are they?" he inquired idly, from the depths of his armchair. "You wait and hear," Kit answered over her shoulder. They listened entranced to one of Bach's most exquisite pieces, "Air on the G String", but when the record stopped and the strains of a romantic ballad filled the room, Marcus's relaxed, loose figure stiffened. He rose abruptly to his feet and switched off the radiogram. He crossed to the long French windows and stood with his back to Kit, looking out into the garden. "What's wrong, Marcus?" she asked gently.

"Nothing," he answered shortly, his back still presented to her. " Only I detest sickly sentiment." He gave vent to a hard laugh. " This silly jargon about the moon and June and love. Love, rubbish! " "Come and sit down again, Marcus. I want to talk to you." The man, lounging negligently against the window- frame, his fingers playing with the tassel of the blind-cord, surveyed Kit sardonically. " I'm in great demand to-day: first Sophie, then Sheila—though of course the subject she wished to discuss was slightly different—and now you." "Upon my word! " Kit said exasperatedly, " you make me feel that I could box your ears with the greatest of pleasure. There are times when I couldn't concur more heartily with the opinion Timothy Danes holds of you." "And the other times?" Marcus queried. Kit's eyes softened. " The other times I think of you as you used to be, as you still are underneath that damned cynical armour you've donned." Marcus crossed back to his armchair and folded his arms in mock humility. " Very well, I suppose we had to have this out sooner or later. It's about Diane, of course? I rather wondered that you haven't brought it up before. You are about the only one of my— er—friends who hasn't." He watched Kit prowling about the room, touching an ornament here, straightening a picture there; she seemed to be experiencing a little difficulty in beginning her homily.

She settled finally in her favourite attitude on the arm of a chair, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her slacks. "Look, Marcus. I've known you for a long time now. I've watched you grow from a boy to a man. You've been to me the son I've never had. I'm not a sentimental person, but "—Kit looked straight at the man—" I'm fond of you, Marcus, and it hurts me to see your life just going to waste." She got restlessly to her feet again. "It's almost four years since Gillian died. I've stood by hoping every day that the man I knew and loved as my own son would come back and this stranger that took his place vanish. It's been a hard job to keep silent, but I thought that you'd come to your senses in time. Well, it doesn't look as if this is going to happen." Kit swung round on him. " In heaven's name, Marcus, what's wrong with you? I know that a grievous wrong was dealt you, that you had a terrible shock. I—I don't think that / shall ever forget that day as long as I live, but the past is dead and -" "The past is not dead," interjected Marcus quietly. " Treachery doesn't die, it lives on; to twist its tendrils round a man's heart and mind—aye, and even his soul. The man you knew died four years ago. This is a new Marcus Baron that you're looking at, Kit, and if you and the rest of Little Marth disapprove of him, then you know what to do." "I see," Kit said slowly. " And just where does Sheila Martin fit in?" Marcus's smile was not very nice to see. " Oh, so that's at the back of all this? Well, you can tell anyone interested enough to ask that she doesn't fit in. "Sheila, in spite of all my faults, is—er—fond of me (I'd be blind not to realise that). At times, Kit, I get damnably lonely: she's good

company then. She bears my drinking and bad temper where another woman wouldn't. If I didn't see her petty, spoilt, shallow nature so clearly, I might do worse than marry her." "I see," Kit repeated, but she went on firmly, "But there's Diane; you can't go on ignoring her, as though she doesn't exist. She does exist, she's your daughter, and you must do something about her. The rest of the whole rotten mess is your own affair, but I'm not going to stand by and watch a child's life spoilt." "What do you suggest I do! Send her to school?" "No, Marcus, you can't—not that baby. Why, she's such a sensitive little thing." "Well," the man said with a shrug, " what's your alternative?" Kit didn't answer him at once. Then she said slowly, " I've never seen you behave with cruelty to an animal: you believe a lot in good training for beasts when they are young. Can't you see that it isn't good for Diane to spend her formative years with only old Sophie to guide her? Oh, I know Sophie's devoted to the child— don't think that I'm disparaging her; but the child ought to have someone young and well educated to guide her: someone who could laugh and play, as well as teach her." Marcus bit on his pipe-stem. " I'm not having another woman in my house, and that's final." He strode towards the door. "Please listen to what I have to say before you go off in a huff," she pleaded. Marcus hesitated. His usual masculine dislike of scenes warred with the old affection for Kit.

"Please, Marcus ..." The man sat down again with an exasperated sigh. " Oh, very well." "It's hard to find the right words to convince you that the project I'm putting forward would be the best thing for all concerned. Charity Tremayne (the girl I have in mind) is a level-headed young woman. She's twenty-two. Her father was a friend of mine: he was a clergyman." "Good God, Kit! you're not seriously suggesting that I should take a parson's daughter into my home, are you?" cried Marcus, aghast. Kit smiled. " I don't think anyone could call Charity a conventional-parson's daughter; partly because her father wasn't a conventional parson. He was a Non-conformist: a Baptist minister in the East End of London. I first met John and his daughter five years ago. His wife died when the child was born. Charity's looked after her father ever since she left school. I often used to go and stay with them at week-ends." Kit mused. " It was like finding an oasis of peace and happiness in an unquiet world. They weren't very well off, but they both seemed to have found the secret all people strive for but seldom attain: a contented spirit, and a serene heart." "They sound almost too good to live," commented Marcus sourly. Kit regarded him oddly. " John Tremayne died three weeks ago; his daughter is left—well, if not penniless, very near it. That's one reason why I'm asking you to engage her as Diane's governess." "I've told you I'm not having any more women in my house. Hasn't the girl any relatives she could go to?"

"No. Anyway, you'd hardly know she was there. She's a tiny little thing—about five feet tall. She's nothing to look at, so you needn't worry about her 'glamour'. If I explained to her that she's to keep herself and the child in their own part of the house, out of your way, I know she would. Charity's a very well balanced, sensible little person." Kit's voice deepened. " Marcus, I've never asked a favour of you before, but I am asking one now. Give it a trial—say six weeks. Then, if it doesn't work out, if the girl gets on your nerves or in your way, she can live with me, and Diane can come over every day for lessons." Marcus looked into her face. " You've got it all thought out. This means a lot to you, doesn't it?" he said slowly, puzzled. " Why?" "Oh, Marcus, who can explain all one's impulses and actions? Call me an interfering old woman if you like!" "Old! " scoffed her companion. " You aren't old. You can run rings around the rest of your sex; especially when it comes to getting your own way." "Then you will agree?" "Yes, I'll agree to engage a governess, but only on one condition: she's to keep out of my way. The least hint of any interference or meddling and I shall send her packing. So don't say that I haven't warned you, Kit." "I shall be on thorns during the trial period," Kit prophesied with a rueful smile. She laid her hand for a brief moment on the man's arm. Marcus covered it with his own. There was a seldom expressed affection and a deep bond between the man and woman, based on

mutual respect and loyalty. The links had often been strained, but they had held fast. "I must go," Marcus said. He walked into the hall and picked up his cap and riding-crop. "It's early yet," Kit protested. " Surely you can stay and have another drink?" "No, thanks all the same, old girl; I want to call in at the local and see if Brown is there yet. I'm not very easy in my mind about my ewes." "H'm, if you want to find Freddie, look for Sheila first. The lovesick idiot's always hanging round her," Kit said mischievously. Marcus refused to be drawn. " Yes, he's a bit of an ass, but he's a darn good vet. Good night, Kit." She watched him ride down the road. A thrush sang in the hedge, regardless of the horse or its rider. The bird's throat quivered with the ecstasy of the song it was singing. The liquid notes hung like threaded beads on the still air. The young farmer cantered along, drinking in the sight and smell of his beloved countryside. It was an effort to dismount and enter the smoky pub, especially hearing the raucous song and laughter coming from its interior. Marcus sighted his quarry in a corner of the bar, but the sight of the vet's companion brought him up sharply. The man smothered a curse; he hadn't bargained on meeting Sheila tonight. He turned on his heel, but she had seen him. She was at his side in a flash, her hand on his wrist. "Why, Marcus! what a lovely surprise! "—Softly, " Are you searching for me?"

He glanced down into her lovely upturned face coldly. " I was looking for Freddie," he said briefly. " I want your opinion, Freddie, on those new ewe tegs I've bought. When can you come over and look at them?" "Not tonight, old man." The vet stretched and groaned. " I've got another all-night sitting. Tonbridge's heifer is still in pretty bad shape." "Well, come over tomorrow; I want those ewes looked at as soon as possible." "Have a heart, man," Freddie complained. " I've got to get my beauty sleep in some time." "Then why the hell aren't you getting it in now?" Marcus replied unsympathetically. Freddie opened his mouth for an indignant rejoinder, but Sheila forestalled him, she decided that she had been ignored long enough. "Freddie, you ought to be going; it will be late by the time you reach High Barn. Marcus will take me home, won't you, my sweet?" Baron's first impulse was to refuse; then his cold grey eyes travelled from Freddie Brown's face (a study in mortification) round the bar, ringed by a row of interested faces, to Timothy Danes, the village doctor sitting in the corner with a glass of beer, smoking his beloved, foul-smelling pipe. Through the smoke-haze Baron met the doctor's level, contemptuous gaze. All right! If Little Marth wanted something to talk about, they'd get it. He wasn't really feeling in the mood for Sheila tonight, but it

would be a pity to disappoint the village. They'd passed judgement on Sheila and himself, anyway. "Very well. I expect Grey Sire will carry us both. 'Night, Freddie. Don't forget, tomorrow definitely." Outside, Marcus unhitched Grey Sire. " I suppose I'll have to put you up in front of me. Side-saddle— your skirt's a nuisance. Sheila made him a mock curtsey. She was looking very lovely in the moonlight. It shone on her dark hair and glinted in the folds of her silver lame dinner dress. Marcus lifted the girl up, and sprang lightly into the saddle behind her. Grey Sire set off at a sedate pace. The air was so still, the clop-clop of the horse's hooves echoed on in the silence behind. Sheila leaned against Marcus. Automatically his arm tightened round her soft body. The perfume she wore rose from the warmth of her to his nostrils. "Marcus, you haven't kissed me for over a month now," she sighed. The man looked down at the red mouth pouted so enticingly near his own. "Don't take me home yet, it's early; let's go down by the spinney...." Sheila's voice was soft and low, alluring. Marcus shrugged his shoulders. After all, why not? She was over twenty-one—she knew just what she was doing. But for some odd reason, even as he kissed Sheila—at first idly, then with mounting

passion— Kit's words came back to him: " an oasis of peace and happiness...."

CHAPTER TWO "—AND so you see, my dear, I thought I would run up to town again and take you out to lunch." Kit looked across at the slight figure at the other side of the room. " And for mercy's sake, child, take your head out of that book. I don't believe you've heard a word I've been saying." Charity Tremayne looked up with an apologetic smile. " Sorry, Kit, but I can never resist dipping into Treasure Island. I think I love it as much now as I did when I was little." The girl was on her knees by the bookcase, and books were strewn all around in wild confusion. By her side was a huge packing-case, half-filled with them. Kit studied Charity critically; she was trying to see her through Marcus's eyes. Not by any stretch of the imagination would Charity Tremayne ever be called beautiful. She was petite, with a trim figure. Her hair was brown—plain brown—worn in a coronet braid around her head. Her features were regular; there was nothing about them to catch one's eye. Her skin was healthily pale. In fact, there wasn't anything at all remarkable to the average observer. "Well, is it the dirt on my face or the general effect of springcleaning that's making you stare so hard, Kit?" Charity laughed. Kit grinned. " Neither, my child. Charity, there's something I want to talk to you about—seriously, I mean." "I thought you wouldn't come back to town twice in one week just to take me out to lunch," commented Charity shrewdly. "Come on, Kit, out with it. What's troubling you?"

"Well -" Kit hesitated. " Perhaps it would be better if I started from the beginning." "It's usual to do just that," Charity said dryly. "It really goes back to when I first moved to Little Marth, fifteen years ago. I don't know if I've ever spoken to you about the Baron family. They were the first friends that I made in the village. The old farmer was alive then, and there were Marcus and Philip, his sons. Marcus was the elder by three years. "The Barons have been farmers for generations; it was perfectly plain that Marcus would follow the tradition. I wish you could have seen Marcus then, Charity. He was fifteen and full of the joy of living. He was very dark, and his boyish skin was tanned and glowing with health. "Somehow I never really liked Philip. He was as fair as his brother was dark, with blue eyes. He had very polished manners, even at twelve years of age. All the good ladies in the village thought he was a lovely little boy; but even then, to me, he appeared insincere. I much preferred Marcus's instinctive good manners that came from the heart. We became fast friends, he and I. He used to take me to see his favourite haunts—where badgers lay, a moorhen's nest, fox cubs at play. "Philip never had any love for the land; he was supposed to be 'artistic'. Goodness knows what people mean by that word; I don't. "The brothers were good friends. Marcus had a great admiration for Philip's talents. "Well, the years rolled by: Edward Baron was killed—gored by his prize bull. Marcus was only twenty, but he ably took over the management of the farm. Of course it went to him—he was the

eldest son. But Philip was never interested in the farm, anyway. Little Marth didn't see very much of that young man after his father died. With the money that he inherited under the will he was able to live the life he really wanted—in London. "Marcus never had a lot to do with women. He wasn't particularly interested in the social life of the county. Oh, he hunted, went to the Hunt balls, used to have an occasional beer at the local inn. He was chased all right, naturally; he was one of the most eligible bachelors for miles around! Well, you can imagine it, can't you, Charity? ... We used to laugh together over the antics of matchmaking mothers. One of his most determined pursuers was (perhaps I should say, still is) Sheila Martin, Colonel Martin's spoiled brat of a daughter. I think she's run after him since she was in her cradle. When Marcus was twenty-five he met Gillian Greyson. "Perhaps that young woman's fame never reached as far as the East End; but she was one of the most promising young actresses in the show business, I believe. Apparently it was a case of love at first sight with both of them. Marcus was bowled over, she was so very lovely. Gillian had a perfect figure and colouring. Her hair was that beautiful golden shade. I don't suppose anyone like Marcus had crossed her path before. Virile, young farmer, tanned, darkly good-looking. Marcus was a tempestuous wooer; they were married within two weeks -" Kit broke off with an apologetic look at Charity. " Am I boring you too much?" "No, of course not. Go on with your story." Charity sat on the hearthrug hugging her knees, like a child listening to a fairy-tale. "Well," Kit took up her story, " they were wildly happy for the first three months, then Gillian discovered she was going to have a child. She raved and stormed at her husband; it would ruin her

figure, and her future in the theatre. Marcus was very patient and loving with her during those difficult nine months, in spite of all the tears and tantrums in which Gillian indulged. I shall always remember Marcus the day Diane was born: he was radiant with happiness. "Diane was not a year old when Philip came back. He'd been in America during the last two and a half years. "I suppose," said Kit slowly, " that what happened was more or less inevitable—Gillian and Philip being the types of people they were. Perhaps Gillian had a little excuse for what she did; I don't know. She was used to the glitter and thrill of theatre life and the pulsing excitement of a great city. Marcus was a busy farmer, and probably he was too much the husband, and not enough the lover. Perhaps she didn't even mean to leave him and her child for ever. Gillian was in a dangerous state of resentment and boredom, and Philip was there, close at hand. They went away together one night while Marcus was busy down in the Long Meadow tending a sick cow. They didn't get very far. Philip swerved to avoid an oncoming lorry, and his Bentley smashed straight into a brick wall. Both of them were killed instantly. "Marcus asked me to go with him to identify them. I shall never forget his face. They had laid both the bodies side by side on the grass verge by the roadside. Oddly enough, their faces were completely unmarked. "All the faith and trust in his fellow men drained out of the face of Marcus. As I watched, it was as though he died, and a stranger took his place.

"That was four years ago. I've been hoping and praying that the grievous wound would heal in God's own good time; that the boy I knew and loved would replace the embittered man." Kit relinquished the blind-tassel she had been idly turning in her hands. "The worst part of the whole affair is that Marcus just absolutely ignores the child he once loved. I think it's partly because Diane is the living image of her mother. Poor little mite! " Kit sighed. " She's such a sensitive little thing. She adores her father, too. "Marcus has alienated practically everybody in the village. He drinks more than is good for him—oh, he doesn't get drunk, he gets bitingly sarcastic. He jeers at all women, and scoffs cynically at any idea of a true lasting love and marriage. "Sheila Martin runs after him; Marcus treats her like a loose woman, although to my mind she asks for the treatment she receives. I don't know, but I should imagine they are lovers; although I don't for one minute think that he will marry her. He's going downhill fast." "Why are you telling me all this?" Charity asked. Kit swung round. " Because I want you to go to -Raven's Rest and look after Diane. Will you, Charity?" "But," the girl pointed out reasonably, " if her father detests women to that extent, he'll refuse to have me in the house." "I've talked to him. It's a conditional surrender. If you keep yourself and Diane right out of his way in your own part of the house, Marcus will agree to engage you."

"H'm, the job doesn't sound very attractive, you must admit, Kit— working for a man who's wallowing in resentment and self-pity and drinking himself into an early grave." Kit took the girl's hands in her own. " Charity, I've never known you to refuse the appeal of a child, and it's mostly for the child's sake that I'm asking you. She needs you, Charity; she needs the laughter and fun, and, most of all, the love that's in your heart for all children, my dear. At least think it over, child. I'll take you out to lunch and you can tell me your decision then." "I've decided now: I'll take the job." "Oh, my dear child! you—you don't know how relieved I am. I feel as though something brighter is coming to Raven's Rest at last." "That will probably be the fireworks going off when I meet Mr. Baron," Charity laughed. "Oh, dear," thought Kit, "I told Marcus he would hardly know that a woman was in the house; underneath Charity's quiet exterior there's fire and passion." "Just one thing, Charity. Marcus has a terrible temper. And it's all the more dangerous to himself and others because it's superficially under control. So try not to provoke him. Oh, well," Kit reflected philosophically, " if you keep out of his way probably he won't even notice your existence. In the meantime, young woman, I'm going to take you on a shopping expedition. Now don't argue. I've just received the royalties from my last novel, so I can afford very well to buy you some new clothes. You looks as though you need a few."

The afternoon sped by on winged feet. At the end of it Charity possessed more clothes than she had ever had in her life before. It was almost dusk when she walked to the station with Kit to catch her train. The fights of London were twinkling brightly. "I love London," Charity voiced her thoughts aloud—" ever since I was a tiny child. It always gives me an exciting feeling here "— and she laid her hand on her heart—" just to walk her streets." "Yes," Kit agreed with a faint sigh. " It's hard to leave London and transplant your roots elsewhere. I hope you won't find the country too dull, my dear." "No, I don't think I will. Of course it will be a different type of life altogether from what I've known, but I'm fairly adaptable; and I shall have you near." "I hope you'll come to see me very often. Remember, Charity, if things go wrong at Raven's Rest, my home is always open to receive you. But I know you'll make a success of any job that you undertake," the older woman said firmly, as though she were squashing her own doubts. Kit carried away with her the picture of Charity's slight young figure standing on a dark platform, her small face a blur in the gathering darkness.

"All change—all change here for Blackfoords, Chagwell, and Teresa's Ley. All change here!! ..."

Charity woke from her day-dreaming with a start. The girl gathered up her case and bag and hastily descended from the mainline train. She hailed a passing porter: "When does the next train for Teresa's Ley leave, please?" "It's in now, miss—platform two. Shall I carry your bag, miss?" "Yes, please." Charity settled herself in her seat. She had an empty compartment all to herself: after the bustle and rush of the last few days, the uprooting of most that remained of her old life, she could put her feet up, relax and ponder on the future. Almost as soon as the thought burgeoned, the carriage door was snatched open. "Come along, dear, we'll have this compartment. Give me the parcels; I'll put them up in the rack. Oh, we must have the window closed: I simply can't have the dust and everything blowing down my throat." Charity had a confused impression of dozens of people in the carriage, but when the fuss subsided the dozens narrowed down to two middle-aged women. They sat down in the other corners, facing each other. Charity, frankly eyeing them with interest, mentally dubbed them " Box and Cox ". Box was thin and angular, in face as well as body; her nose was one sharp angle; her chin was another. Cox was short and plump, with a weak, foolish face—something like a mild, amiable sheep. Both the ladies were dressed in well-worn tweeds and hats of shapeless felt.

The girl met Box's sharply antagonistic gaze. Charity smiled shyly at the older woman, but all the response she received was a frozen stare. The girl took up her magazine and began to read; soon she was absorbed in the contents. But not so absorbed that she didn't notice when the name Marcus Baron was introduced into the conversation between the two women. "Yes," Box was saying, " Miss Braithwaite was telling me. She said she was never so shocked and disgusted in all her life. Really, she told me in confidence, but -" Cox leaned forward, her weak face avidly alight with eagerness. " You know you can tell me, dear; I shan't breathe a word to a soul." "Well," Box said impressively," it was last Friday evening. Miss Braithwaite was coming back from choir practice. You know she usually cycles down, but the chain of her cycle was being repaired. It was rather late—about eleven o'clock (she'd stopped to talk to the dear vicar)—so she thought she'd take a short cut through Bardwell's spinney. You remember, Winnie, it was a bright, moonlight night. Miss Braithwaite said she couldn't possibly have mistaken them. She saw the horse tethered to a bush first; and then, my dear, she—saw them—on the grass under the trees. Marcus Baron and Sheila Martin. Miss Braithwaite said he was kissing her with absolute savagery." "What did she do?" Winnie asked avidly. "Do? Why, she averted her eyes from such a— spectacle, and hurried home. I've said all along those two were lovers; and I'm right. I think it's disgraceful," Box said with a loud sniff. " Someone should speak to them -"

"Yes, dear, but who? I think -" The driver applied his brakes and the train slowed down. "Goodness gracious, Winnie, we're here already! Where's the strawberry shortcake? .. . No, you had it. Look, there it is—by the library books...." By the time Charity gathered up her belongings and descended from the train the two ladies were already out on the hilly road, free-wheeling their cycles, their shopping stuffed in the cyclebaskets and dangling from the handle-bars. There was one man on the sleepy platform, who, as there was no one else in sight, the girl assumed to be the stationmaster- cum-porter-cum-ticket-collector. "Please," she asked, a trifle breathlessly," can you tell me how to reach Little Marth?" He looked at her over his spectacles. " Don't ee know, then?" Charity resisted the temptation to tell him, crossly, that if she did she wouldn't be asking him the way. "No," she said meekly, " I'm afraid I don't. I thought I would be met here; but it doesn't look as though anyone has arrived to meet this train." "Excuse me," a voice from behind made Charity start, " but did I hear you saying you wished to get to Little Marth? I'm going that way in my car, if you would care for a lift." The stranger whom Charity swung round to face was a pleasantfaced young man, whose direct, keen gaze was, oddly at variance with his sensitive features.

Charity ran her eyes over him doubtfully. He looked quite safe. The young fellow seemed to read her thoughts. His eyes twinkled, though his face remained grave. " I assure you I'm not trying to get fresh, only there's no bus service from here to Little Marth, so unless you really feel like a long walk with that heavy case— I'm sure our esteemed stationmaster will vouch for my respectability, won't you, Ben?" That morose individual grunted and moved off down the platform, clutching the tickets. Charity and the young man looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing. "A little ray of sunshine, he is. Well, if Ben won't introduce me, I must do so myself: Dr. Timothy Danes, at your service! " "Oh, you're a doctor," the girl exclaimed ingenuously. "Yes, and you? . .." "Oh, I'm just an ordinary person. My name is Charity Tremayne." Dr. Danes looked at her and snapped his fingers. " Of course, that's it; I knew I'd seen you before. I heard (would it be your father?) speak at the City Temple two years ago. It was one of the finest sermons I've ever heard." "Thank you," Charity said in a low voice. The doctor glanced curiously at the girl, but refrained from commenting.

"Here we are; this is my gallant steed, 'Ole Faithful'. Ole Faithful; this is Miss Tremayne. Hop in, while I put the case in the back. I know she looks as though she might fall to pieces at any moment, but she's got a good engine under her bonnet." The man was talking to give the girl time to recover her selfpossession. He let in the clutch, and Ole Faithful started forward with a series of jerks. Charity clutched her seat. "Don't be alarmed," the doctor told her cheerily, " she's just warming up." Charity smiled. She was beginning to like this young doctor; she had felt at ease in his presence right away. "What were you doing in London two years ago?" she inquired. "Studying at Bart's. I used to explore the City in what little spare time I had from my studies." He shook his fair head with a reminiscent grin. " The places I used to find! I got into a Chinese theatre one evening. The play went on for hours, with weird music and gestures. Of course I couldn't understand one word they were saying, but I enjoyed it just the same. And Hyde Park; how I enjoyed the soap-box orators! But most of all I liked wandering round the narrow alleys and courts—coming across a half-hidden plaque telling the world a famous man or woman once lived there. I think it's in the back streets that one can feel the heart of London." Charity turned eagerly to him. " You feel that, too; I suppose it was during your roaming that you heard Joddy preach."

"Yes, I saw the queue outside the City Temple, and promptly attached myself on to the end. He was the guest preacher, wasn't he? I shall always remember the text he took that night." The young doctor's eyes were on the road stretching in front of him. " I was in a quandary about my personal affairs; and your father's sermon resolved them for me." "What was the text?" Charity asked curiously. " I don't remember." '"He having put his hand to the plough and looking back'," the doctor quoted. "And Joddy helped you; I'm so glad." "Why do you call him Joddy?" asked the man. "When I was a tiny child all his friends that came to the house called him Johnny, and my baby tongue made Joddy of it. I'm rather intrigued that you should remember my face, though," Charity went on lightly. " It doesn't usually stand out in a crowd." "I've a good memory for faces," Timothy Danes said, " and I was struck that night by your expression as you watched your father." "I loved him very much," Charity said softly. "Loved -" "Yes, my father died a month ago." Dr. Danes didn't offer the girl his sympathy. He just laid his hand over hers for a brief warm moment; and then he took it away. "Have you any friends in Little Marth?" he asked.

"Yes, Kit Harcombe. Do you know her?" "Know her! I should say I do. I think everyone in the village knows old Kit. Are you staying with her ?" "No," Charity said. " Actually, I'm going to take up the post of nursery governess at a farm called Raven's Rest." "Raven's Rest!" the man echoed, in a very startled manner. " Do you mean Baron's place?" "Yes, I think Mr. Baron owns the farm I'm going to." "But, Miss Tremayne—look, I know it's none of my business, but I think that you ought to know just what you are going into. Marcus Baron is -" Charity laid her hand on his arm, " Please," she said gently. " I prefer to take people as I find them myself." Timothy Danes stopped the car. He turned in his seat to face Charity. His keen, sensitive face wore a troubled look. " I suppose really I expected you to say something like that; you're that kind of person, only (don't laugh at me, please) I have a feeling you may need a friend. If you do, please don't hesitate to call on me. My house is next door to the Barley Corn (that's the local publichouse). You'll always find me there between six o'clock and seventhirty any evening." "Thank you, Dr. Danes. If I do need any help," Charity answered, " I'll remember your kind offer. Thank you for giving me a lift, too, in Ole Faithful," she added with a mischievous smile. The young doctor's taut face relaxed; he put the car into gear. " We hope to have the pleasure of driving you again, don't we, old girl?"

He gave the car an affectionate pat. " Baron's farm is down in the valley, just over the brow of the hill." He dropped Charity at the main gate. The girl stood looking around her. The afternoon sun lay across the house and the lawn. The birds were chirruping noisily high up in the beech-trees. A rook flapped its lazy way across the sky. She turned slowly. .. . The hills reared up behind Raven's Rest as it lay in the lush valley, their summits topped with purple haze. There didn't seem to be a soul about; the place lay almost asleep. Charity left her huge cabin-trunk by the gate. She picked up her case and bag and began making her way round the back of the house, to come face to face with a bent little old man. He looked her up and down with sharp old eyes, and removed his greasy cap. " Be you the young lady governess?" "Why, yes," Charity said, with a pleasant smile, " I suppose I am. I don't think there's another." "Beggin' your pardon, miss," he said, " I should have bin at the station to meet you. Only, do you see, when I goes to set off, the front axle breaks on the little old trap. The boss, he's away over yonder with the car. Reckon he'll curse me when he knows I wasn't there in time." "Then don't let's tell him," Charity said impulsively. " It can be a secret between us." The old man grinned expansively, revealing a mouth empty of teeth. " Nobody else need know anything about it but us two. I'll fetch your trunk in. I see'd doctor put it down for you. You go

straight round the house and into the kitchen. Sophie's there —a secret, eh?" The old man went off, chuckling delightedly. Charity made her way up the flagged path and opened tie kitchen door. A woman in a print dress, enveloped in a large white apron, was leaning over the huge range, her back to the door. She turned round and deposited a tray of buns on the large, well- scrubbed wooden table. She caught sight of Charity hesitating in the doorway. "Good afternoon," the girl said hesitantly. " I'm Miss Tremayne— Mr. Baron has engaged me as governess for his little girl." Charity remembered Kit's words, "Watch your step," so she smiled timidly at the older woman. She glanced round the kitchen and gave a cry of delight. " What a genuine old farmhouse kitchen! just as I've always pictured one to be; even to the cat asleep on that red-tiled window sill. . . . And that beautiful old willow- pattern china. You hardly ever see it nowadays." Charity advanced to examine the pieces ranged strikingly along the length of the oak beam. Praising her kitchen was evidently one way to Sophie's heart. Her wrinkled old face relaxed. " Ay," she said, " you mostly see this new-fangled stuff with gold bands round the edge. . . . The master's away down in the Long Meadow, but he'll be back at three-thirty sharp. So I'll be showing you the way to your bedroom, miss." Charity followed the upright old figure up the narrow stairs. "These are the back stairs, miss, leading only to the kitchen," Sophie said. She threw open a door at the end of the long corridor," This is your bedroom." Charity entered." What a lovely room! " she cried.

It was very spacious. The bed stood slightly raised at one end, with attached wooden steps leading up to it. The kidney-shaped dressing-table demurely wore a skirt of rose-sprigged dimity. The bed hangings and the curtains were made of the same dainty material. There was a large built-in wardrobe and also a cupboard, so there would be plenty of room for her new clothes. The cream wallpaper had small pink rosebuds climbing over it—to match up with the curtains. By the bed stood a little table. On it were a bedside lamp and a small bunch of primroses. Charity touched the soft petals tenderly. "Miss Diane picked them specially for you," Sophie said. Charity turned to the older woman. " When can I see her?" "Mr. Marcus wants to see you first in the study at half-past three. If you come down to the kitchen when you're ready I'll show you the way. The bathroom is next door to your bedroom. It's five to the hour now: Mr. Marcus doesn't like to be kept waiting." The door closed behind Sophie. Charity grimaced. She could quite imagine the impatience of " Mr. Marcus." She crossed to the latticed windows. From her bedroom the girl could see the roofs of houses in the village, and in the distance rose the slender church spire. It gave Charity a feeling of comforting familiarity just to see it. She turned away from the view. Time was speeding by. Charity unzipped her case and extracted her sponge- bag and face-towel. There wouldn't be time to unpack before the interview if she was going to wash and re-do her face and hair. A few minutes later she walked out into the corridor. Now, which door led to the head of the kitchen stairs? Almost as soon as she opened one door, Charity realised it led into another bedroom—a

child's bedroom. A little girl was kneeling on the padded windowseat, her nose pressed against the panes. Charity advanced into the room and swiftly closed the door. "Hello," she said. The child swivelled round. Big solemn blue eyes surveyed the older girl. "Hello," she echoed doubtfully. Charity held out a coaxing hand, "My name's Charity. What's yours?" "Diane Stephanie Baron." "My word! that's a big name. I've got a picture somewhere in a book of your namesake, Diane, the moon goddess. Would you like to see it one day?" The small, solemn face broke into an enchanting smile. " Yes, please." The child got off the window- seat and came and slipped a small hot hand into Charity's. "You're my new gov-governess: Sophie said I shall have to mind my p's and q's when you came. Please, what are p's and q's?" The girl impulsively put her arm round the small figure and hugged her. " We're going to have a lot of fun together, you and I. Everything, even lessons, can be fun, poppet." "That's a funny name," Diane said consideringly. " What does it mean?" "Well, it's a pet name: you know, like dear and darling; only poppet is rather a special pet name."

"I like it," the child said. " I like you, too. Would you like to see all my babies?" Charity's heart, always tender where children were concerned, went out to Diane. The child looked as though she needed loving—lots of loving. She was a dainty little thing. Her golden hair was cropped short. Charity's fingers itched to put a pretty bow of ribbon among her curls. "This is Sally Polly, this is Marie, and this is Amelia Anne." Charity gravely shook the dolls by their tiny hands and said howdo-you-do to them. "I have so much trouble with Marie: you wouldn't believe. And then when I smack her 'cos she's naughty she just cries and cries!" Charity's lips twitched. Such a quaint old-fashioned tone: it probably came from being too much with older people. She sat down on the floor beside the child. " And what's this Teddy's name?" "Oh, his name's Teddy Bear." "I know a song about a Teddy Bears' picnic," Charity said. " Would you like me to teach it to you ?" "Oh yes, please," Diane cried. " I like singing ... only ... only ..." She puckered her brow. " I don't know many songs." Charity twitched the child's curls. " I know lots of songs. What were you watching out of the window, Diane? The birds?" "No," the child said, " I was watching for my daddy. I often watch him, but I mustn't let him see me."

Charity's heart swelled. Poor little motherless mite! "There's my daddy now." Diane ran to the window. " That's his car." The older girl scrambled to her feet. Heavens above! She was supposed to be down in the study. " I have to go and see your daddy now, Diane." The child ran across to her; "But you'll come back. I like you. You won't let my daddy send you away, will you?" "No," Charity answered, " I won't let him send me away." The girl repeated the words to herself like a talisman." I won't let him send me away"; hesitating outside the study door. Sophie opened it and ushered her in with a brisk, " Here she is, Master Marcus." Charity was face to face with Marcus Baron.

CHAPTER THREE THE farmer was sitting at his desk, his head bent, writing. Without looking up he said, " Will you close the door, please, and sit down?" Charity obeyed. She sat down facing the man, the width of the desk between them. She clasped her hands firmly in her lap, to still their trembling. The girl's heart was beating like a wild thing. This unaccountable nervousness was ridiculous, she told herself sternly. " He's only a man, after all; he can't eat you." The minutes ticked by. Still Baron went on with his writing. The silence increased rather than diminished her nervousness. At last he laid down his pen and rose to his feet. Charity's eye dilated, her heart beat faster than ever; she raised one hand as though she would still its beating. A vast surge of feeling swept over the girl like a tidal wave. It was as though she had known, been almost one with this man before. Perhaps in some other existence. And yet Charity knew that this was the first time that she had laid eyes on Marcus Baron. The man was very tall; his spare frame held a kind of whipcord grace. His face was darkly tanned and hollowed. The clear-cut lips looked almost cruel above the firm jaw. His dark hair was thick, not even the stern brushing it evidently received had been able to eradicate a wave. But it was the eyes that held Charity's fascinated gaze. They were grey—as grey as chiselled steel and as cold. They were looking her up and down in a scrutiny that was so impersonal as to be bordering on insolence. "You are Miss Tremayne?" Baron drawled. "Yes," Charity said, briefly.

"You look very young—hardly old enough to have charge of a child." Charity's chin came up. " I was in charge of a babies' crèche in Whitechapel for almost two years," she replied. "I have no doubt you consider yourself capable, but "—Baron frowned—" I should prefer someone older and more—er—mature to fill the post of governess in my house, so I'm afraid, Miss Tremayne, I must inform you that I consider you unsuitable for the job I have in mind." The girl jumped to her feet, Diane's words," Don't let my daddy send you away," ringing in her ears. She faced Baron courageously. "Mr. Baron, aren't you being rather unfair? I've come all the way up here to take this job; at least, for a trial period of—I believe— six weeks. And now you just flatly refuse to employ me. At least you might wait until you've formed some estimate of my capabilities- before you decide." Charity faced the farmer, her small head held high, her violet eyes blazing indignation. Baron leaned against the fireplace surveying her thoughtfully. " Sit down, Miss Tremayne. . . . Perhaps," he added slowly, " I am being rather unjust." He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. " Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked formally. "Not at all," she replied. He began filling his pipe, the bowl held in one large, tanned hand; slim fingers of the other hand pressing the tobacco in

methodically. He shot a sudden glance at Charity. " Has Kit Harcombe told you the conditions appertaining to this job?" "A little," the girl answered cautiously. "Well," he said, " your job will be to look after Diane entirely, and to keep both her and yourself out of my way. I don't want to see or hear anything of either of you," he added harshly. " Is that clear?" "Yes," Charity replied in a low voice—" quite clear; but aren't you being rather rash putting Diane's entire well-being in my hands? I might ill-treat her." "Not with Sophie around," the man answered grimly. " If you carry out the conditions satisfactorily, I am prepared to pay you the sum of eighty pounds on the first of every month. We'll make the trial period one month; that should be ample time to show whether the bargain will be satisfactory to both sides." "But—but," Charity almost stammered, " that's a very generous salary, Mr. Baron, I. .." "Wait and see. You'll probably find you'll be earning every penny of it." Marcus straightened his tall figure. " I must get back to the milking. Sophie will have some tea ready for you in the kitchen; after this she has instructions to serve your meals in the nursery with Diane—so if you'll excuse me, Miss Tremayne, we'll consider this interview closed." Outside the room Charity stood with her back against the door, the palms of her hands pressed flat against its panels. Weil, she'd won; but that strange surge of emotion she had experienced in the study left her feeling oddly spent, as though she had been swimming for hours against a strong current. Never had she experienced anything

like it before—something had touched wells of deep emotion, deep down in the depths of her being. Charity pulled herself together and went slowly along to the kitchen. Sophie had indeed prepared a tea. There were new- laid eggs, thin bread and butter, hot scones lavishly spread with butter and homemade blackberry-and- apple jam. "Come along in," Sophie said. " I thought maybe you'd be hungry after your travelling." Diane was in the kitchen perched on a stool, the black cat purring in her arms. She looked up half fearfully. " I'm not supposed to be here," she said, " but when my daddy goes out Sophie calls me, and when he comes in I run like anyfink up the stairs. It's a game we play," she added seriously -" Is my daddy sending you away?" "No," Charity smiled. " I'm going to stay here and look after you." "Come up to the table and eat your tea, Miss Diane," Sophie interposed, " and let the young lady eat hers in peace." "That's not a young lady; that's Charity," the child said. Charity smiled at Sophie over her head. " Shall I peel your egg for you, poppet?" "No, fank you, I can do it; I'm five, you know. Sometimes I help Sophie c'lect the eggs, and there's a 'normous great white hen what clucks like anyfink when you go to take her eggs."

"'That clucks' like anything: not 'what'," corrected Charity. "I like it down here in the kitchen," Diane said, busy with her egg, " and so does Blackie. He sleeps under the range at night. Wouldn't you fink all his fur would be burned right away, Charity?" "She's properly taken to you, miss, and no mistake," Sophie commented softly, pouring out tea. " It's a good job she has, poor lonely little mite." The girl looked across at the child, sedately eating her egg. " I've taken to her,, too; she's a sweet little thing. I can't understand her father." Sophie put the teapot down with a bang that threatened to break the bottom clean in half. " If you're going to stay here, Miss Tremayne, you'll find that what Master Marcus does is nought to do with the like of us!" Charity returned the old woman's steady glance " I quite understand: but even he can't prevent me from thinking as I please." Diane had stopped eating—was looking from one to the other with troubled young eyes. "Finish your tea, pet, and then you can come upstairs and help me unpack. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" "Oh yes, I would. I have finished my tea, really. Can we go now?" "Where's your manners?" admonished Sophie. Diane closed her eyes tightly. " Fank you, God, for my good tea; please may I get down?" Both the women smiled.

"Are you sure you wouldn't care for another cup of tea, miss?" "No, thank you, Sophie. Come along, poppet; we'll go upstairs." The trunk stood on the floor of the bedroom. Diane squatted down beside it and watched Charity manipulate the keys. The girl worked quickly and deftly, shaking out her clothes and hanging them in the large wardrobe. "Why do you have those funny fings in your shoes?" Diane asked. "They're called shoe-trees; if you pop them in the shoes when you take them off it preserves them— makes them last a long time." Diane was unscrewing a bottle and smelling it intently. " What's this?" "That's called lavender toilet-water; you sprinkle it over your body after a bath." "Can I have some on me after my bath?" "We—ll, perhaps a little." "Auntie Sheila uses scent, but I don't like it very much. I don't like her very much." Charity gave Diane a glance. She wanted to hear about the intriguing Sheila Martin, but not from a child. "Help me put these things in the drawers, Diane. Look, here's a box of ribbons. You can sort them over and pick one out for your own hair." Diane was entranced with the gay ribbons. Charity watched her face. Such a little thing to please a child! She glanced at her watch. " I think it's time for your bath, then bed, Diane. You

can carry the toilet-water and I'll bring my talcum powder; then you'll smell as fresh as a flower-garden." Pity for Marcus Baron struggled with anger in Charity's heart when she was soaping the little body. Was he so blind that he couldn't see what he was missing by not watching his daughter grow up! Seeing a child day by day, watching the young mind unfold, like a bud unfolds to the kiss of the sun, the character itself veritably taking shape. The freshness of childhood lasted only for a little while.... Even if Marcus Baron rediscovered his daughter as she grew older, he could never call back the years of her childhood. Charity took Diane on her lap. " Now we'll put the toilet-water here and here. And now this great big puff. Oh, look at it! full of powder. Look out! here it comes." Diane squealed with merriment at this lovely new game. Charity had such gentle soft hands, while Sophie's were workworn and rough. Besides, Sophie never had time to play games like this; and she always hurt when she washed out your ears. "What about your prayers, poppet?" Diane knelt up in her narrow bed. " God bless Sophie and Eli and Danny and Ben and Tim and Blackie and the horses and the new colt, and Charity and Auntie Kit, and make me a-good girl; and please, God bless my daddy and make him like little girls soon. Amen." She snuggled down. Charity moved towards the door. " Good night, my pet." A small voice came from the bed. " Charity, will the bogy-man come out of the dark and get me if I'm not a good girl?"

Charity came swiftly back to the bed and knelt down. "There are no such things as bogy-men, Diane; and you need never be frightened of the dark. God made the darkness so that we could rest after the daylight." She went to the window, swept back the curtains. " Look, Diane, up there, high up in the sky; there's the evening star just beginning to shine. And as it gets dark thousands and thousands of stars come out. God put them in the sky to watch over you and all His little children everywhere. And then there's the moon. You're named after her, you know: ' Diane, the pale moon goddess.' She touches all the earth with silver. Why, the night-time is just as beautiful as the day, only in a different way." Charity came away from the window. " I'll leave the curtains undrawn; if you wake in the night you'll see the stars. Then you'll remember there's nothing at all of which to be afraid. Lie down again, poppet, and I'll tuck you right round like a hedgehog when he goes to sleep." Diane was almost asleep. " I didn't know about God and the stars. I'll remember now," she said in a drowsy little voice. Charity stayed in the nursery until the child's even breathing indicated that she was soundly sleeping. Back in her bedroom the girl stood undecidedly. The house was very quiet; outside in the meadow a cow was lowing. Somehow it was a lonely sound. She'd like to go down and see Kit. It would be cheering to see one familiar face on her first evening. She would ask Sophie if she would mind her going out. Charity powdered her nose and changed her shoes for stout leather brogues that were more suitable for walking on country roads. She took some small change out of her purse and slipped it in her suit pocket. Sophie was ironing; the pleasant smell of freshly laundered linen filled the kitchen.

"Let me do those for you," Charity said impulsively; " you must be tired." "I've been doing the ironing in this house for a good many years now," the old woman said dryly, " and I doubt but I've more strength left in me whole body than some I can mention have in their little finger." The girl smiled. " I think you're marvellous. I only hope I have half your energy when I reach your age." Sophie softened. " Thank you for offering to help, Miss Tremayne, but your job is to look after Miss Diane." "Do you think it would be all right if I went out for a while? I thought I'd stroll down into the village. Diane is fast asleep." "You go out and get some fresh air," Sophie said. " I'll keep an eye on the lamb. I did it afore you came." It was a lovely spring evening, almost dusk. Charity strolled down the narrow, winding road to the village. The green hedges on either side were alive with small birds. She plucked a spray Of honeysuckle and put it in her buttonhole. There were heaps of blackberry flowers in the hedges—perhaps she could take Diane blackberrying in the autumn? Charity pulled her thoughts up; possibly she wouldn't be at Raven's Rest when autumn came. The thought gave her a pang. Diane had already found her way into the girl's heart: and her strange father .... Kit was digging energetically in the front garden. Beyond the cottage, Charity espied the Barley Corn, and farther down on the other side of the road the old church.

Kit looked up as the latch clicked. " Hello, my dear! I've been thinking of you all day." She brandished her little hand-fork. " I'm attacking these weeds. Honestly they just sprout out of thin air. What do you think of my carnations? They'll make a fine show when they are all out together." "I didn't know you were a gardener, Kit," Charity said, following the older woman into the house. "Didn't you? I often find inspiration for my novels digging around in the garden. Now, come into the lounge and give me your first impressions of Raven's Rest. I'll just wash the dirt off my hands and tell Saunders to make coffee." Charity wandered round the lounge. She ran her fingers along the bookcase; there was a copy of Kit's latest book, Death is Brooding, cheek by jowl with H. G. Wells's Homo Sapiens. Kit came briskly into the room. " Looking at my miscellaneous collection? I've a very catholic taste in literature. Now come and sit down and tell me everything." "Well," the girl said slowly, " I haven't had time to sort out any impressions yet. I'm—I'm rather confused. There was a slight delay in meeting me at Teresa's Ley station, and a young man gave me a lift. Dr. Danes, he said his name was. Do you know him?" "Good heavens, yes ! I've known young Timothy Danes since he was so high." Kit looked at Charity. " What did you think of him?" "He seemed quite nice and ordinary. ... I don't think he likes Marcus Baron." "No," Kit said tersely. "I know he doesn't. There have been one or two disputes between them -"

"Kit, who are these two women (I should imagine they live in Little Marth)—one is thin and angular, and the other is short and plump? I think the latter's Christian name is Winnie?" Kit laughed. " My dear, have you met up with the village gossips already? The thin one is Miss Agg, and Winnie's surname is Townsend. They're maiden ladies with private means. They live together. Where did you meet them?" she asked curiously. "They were in the local train," Charity answered. She looked at Kit Harcombe with troubled eyes. " They were gossiping about Mr. Baron. I couldn't help hearing. It—it wasn't very nice." Kit lit a cigarette. " I suppose that prejudiced you against Marcus from the start," she commented a trifle bitterly. Charity looked at the older woman in quiet reproach. Kit caught her hand. " I—I'm sorry, my dear; I shouldn't have said that. Go on with your impressions. "Well, when I drove to Raven's Rest in Dr. Danes' car he seemed understanding and tolerant of human nature and its failings, and yet he, too, disliked my new employer. It wasn't so much what he said; but I could sense his antagonism. Then I saw Diane. Kit," Charity broke out impulsively, " I love her already. She's such a sweet, sensitive little thing." She rose out of her chair. " I don't know whether I feel bitterly angry with Marcus Baron, or just dreadfully sorry for him. In his wilful blindness he's missing so much. When I put Diane to bed she said in her prayers, ' God bless my daddy, and make him like little girls soon.' Oh, Kit, it all seems so pitifully unnecessary! "

"I've thought that for the last four years; but, Charity, Marcus Baron is not the type of man with whom it's wise to meddle. Opposition or interference will only make him the more determined to go his own way. I take it he has engaged you?" "Yes, he has. I'm to go on trial for four weeks. You know, Kit, human nature is odd. When I went into the study I'd half made up my mind to go back to London away from this situation. But when Mr. Baron, after one brief look, told me that I was too young and unsuitable to look after his child, I veered right round and was determined to stay and take the job. I suppose opposition tends to make most of us stubborn." "Anyway," Kit said comfortably, " you've taken to Diane and she to you (all children do); that's the main thing. I hoped it would come to pass. You'll just have to keep right out of His Lordship's way. Then everything will be all right, I hope. Drink your coffee, my child; don't let it get cold." "I like this room," Charity said, looking round. "Yes, I am rather proud of' all me own work'," Kit said. " You must come here often in your spare time. There's the radiogram to amuse you; and the piano. I don't know why I bought the damn thing, I never play it. Play something for me now, Charity, while I finish my coffee." The girl drifted over to the piano. "What would you like me to play?" "Oh, I don't mind; something soft and soothing." Charity's fingers stole over the ivory keys; she played the lovely lullaby, Schumann's 'Slumber Song'.

From the depths of her armchair Kit studied the girl's absorbed face. The older woman was well content with her plan. She waited until the last strains of the music lingered and died away before she spoke." I can tell you one reason why the Misses Agg and Townsend detest Marcus so much. It's really rather amusing—at least, I think so. "We have a fruit, vegetable and flower show in the village every autumn. About two years ago Marcus was chosen to be one of the judges. These two ladies entered a pumpkin; I believe they've done so for years, and never yet won a prize. Apparently a sweet little old lady who lives at the other end of the village, Mrs. Robinson, has always carried it off. No one really knows just what did happen, but there was a terrific rumpus in the marquee. Both the Misses Agg and Townsend and Mrs. Robinson were claiming the same pumpkin to be theirs. It really was a beauty, Charity—for size and colour I don't think I've ever seen such a specimen before or since—and I've been going to the show for fifteen years. Anyway, there they were wrangling over this vegetable: Miss Agg protesting loudly that it was grown in her garden; little Mrs. Robinson bravely sticking her ground. I can see Marcus now, looking gravely from them to the pumpkin.' Well, ladies,' he said perfectly seriously, but I could see the devil dancing in his eyes, 'there's only one way to settle this dispute. I'll cut the pumpkin in two and you can each take half.' And Marcus took out his penknife. "Poor little Mrs. Robinson was nearly in tears; she caught Marcus's arm, ' Please, Mr. Baron, you can't do that; rather than let you cut my beautiful pumpkin, Miss Agg can have it just as it is.' Marcus sheathed his knife and handed the darned thing to Mrs. Robinson.' Solomon was certainly a very wise judge,' he said." Charity was laughing unrestrainedly. " What did Miss Agg do?"

"That lady drew herself up and gave Marcus a withering look, 'Blasphemer!' she positively hissed, and swept herself and Winnie off the scene." "She -What in the world's that?" "That " was a terrific crash. Both Kit and Charity raced outside the cottage. Down by the public-house a white roadster was standing, slewed sideways across the road. "That's Sheila Martin's car," Kit said. " It looks as though there's been an accident." Charity reached it first. As she came up by the light of the inn she could see Dr. Danes kneeling in the roadside by a small boy. Holding on to the car was a young brunette, whose normally attractive face was distorted by a mixture of terror and defiance. Charity knelt down by the child's side. " Is he hurt very badly?" "I think his right leg is broken," the doctor said curtly, his practised hands running efficiently over the child's limbs." Would you open the door, please, Charity, and I'll carry him into my surgery?" Timothy rose with the unconscious child clasped in his arms and faced the young woman. " Well, Sheila, I hope you're satisfied with what you've done tonight. I've warned you scores of times you'd meet with an accident, scorching through the village at the pace you do." "I couldn't help it," the girl muttered sulkily." He ran right under my wheels." "If you'd been going at a steady thirty you would have been able to pull up in time," the doctor retorted sharply. " Well, this time, J.P.'s daughter or not, I'll see that you get your licence endorsed."

Charity detachedly noticed Sheila's red lower lip drop mutinously. She opened the front door with the shining brass plate, just as Kit came panting up. "Straight down the hall, second door on the left," Dr. Danes directed. The strong smell of antiseptic met her as she opened the inner white-painted door. The doctor gently laid the child down. " Can you stand the sight of blood?" he ask Charity. "Yes," she said. He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He was washing his hands when the distraught mother burst into the room. "Where's Johnnie? Where's my baby?" "Now, Mrs. Davis, there's nothing to be alarmed about; I'll have him as right as a trivet in two ticks. Take her outside, Kit, and tell her to go home and put a hot-water bottle in the child's bed." Charity was filled with admiration at the deft yet competent way Timothy dealt with the injury. The girl held the boy's hand firmly in her own; when the doctor finished, she released the pent-up breath she hadn't known she was holding. "There we are," Timothy opened the door. " Now I'll wrap him up in a blanket and carry him over to his home." He glanced back .over his shoulder. " Don't go away before I come back to you. .. ." Kit sank down with a sigh on the leather couch. " Phew! I haven't run so fast in years; my bulk isn't built for speed." She took out her

cigarette-case and selected a cigarette. " Well," she said in tones of deep satisfaction," I guess dear Sheila is going to get what's been coming to her for a long time." Charity turned." She seemed rather—shaken -" Kit snorted. "Shaken! Why, I bet she wasn't a bit concerned about the poor little kid! If she's shaken at all it's because she knows she'll lose her licence for a while; especially after her record. She's been reported several times for reckless driving, but Colonel Martin has always managed to smooth things over. Well, I don't think even he will be able to do so this time! " "You don't like her, do you, Kit?" "No," Sat said bluntly, " neither does Timothy." Charity glanced round the surgery. The combination of whitepainted woodwork and gleaming instruments made the room look very austere. It was all very neat. Even the papers were in tidy piles on the large writing-desk at the end of the room. There was one touch of colour: a bowl of flaming marigolds, their gold petals standing out in bold relief against the dark wood of the desk. A woman's touch. Charity wondered whose hands had arranged the flowers. "Does Dr. Danes live here in this big house alone?" she asked Kit. "No. He has his mother still living with him; his father died last winter. He—" Kit stopped abruptly. The door opened once again. "Well, that's that," Timothy grunted. " I'm sorry you've had such a grim introduction to my home, Miss Tremayne."

"You called me Charity not ten minutes ago," she reminded him. "Yes, so I did; it's odd, although we've only just met, it seems natural to call you by your Christian name." His frank, friendly eyes met hers. " All my friends call me Timothy." Charity smiled, " Good night, Timothy." "Oh, but you aren't going," he protested. " It's early yet." "I think I should be getting back." "Oh, well, let me run you back in the car. I would like to show you the view from the top of the hill," he said boyishly. The young doctor turned to Kit. " Coming with us, Kit?" His tone was warm, but an acute observer could have detected a shade of reluctance underlying it. The lady grinned mischievously. " Thanks for the invitation, Timothy, but after that sprint down the road, all I want is a nice soft armchair; you can drop me at my garden gate, though." Hardly any words passed between the man and the girl as the old car climbed the winding road upwards to the top of the hill. Timothy stopped the car on the summit. A wonderful panorama spread before them. As far as the eye could see the valley lay, the brown of the ploughed earth and the green of the pasture-land combining in a real patchwork effect. The houses of Little Marth clustered together beneath the hill, like chickens sheltering beneath the wing of mother hen. In the distance were the villages of Teresa's Ley and Chagwell. The chimneys of isolated farmsteads sent their smoke straight up in the still evening air.

The doctor watched Charity's absorbed profile. He broke the companionable silence." Do you think you'll like it here?" Charity answered dreamily, " Yes, it's so lovely and peaceful." Timothy laughed. "You wait until you get to know some of the village people, and then see if you still think it' peaceful'! " Charity looked amused. " Kit was telling me about the drama of the pumpkin this evening." "Yes; that was about the only time Baron and I have been in complete agreement. But tell me about yourself, your people, your home." The girl protested," There's nothing to tell. You'd be bored." The man stirred and gently laid his arm along the back of her seat. " No, I want to know all about you —your background, everything...." "Well," Charity began, "I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. She was a countrywoman—my father's first pastorate was in Surrey. Then a friend of Joddy's invited him up to the East End to speak at a Boy's Club. What my father saw during that visit convinced him that the people of London needed him far more than his present prosperous parish, so he went to work among the East Enders. They're a grand people," Charity went on enthusiastically. "There's so much to depress them—their dreary surroundings, their whole environment—yet they have such an incomparable zest for living. "We never had a great deal of money, but I had a very happy childhood. I thought my father the wisest, most wonderful father in

the whole world. As I grew up I realised just how wonderful he really was." "I suppose you kept house for him when you grew up?" Timothy said. "Yes, I finished my schooling, and came home to learn to cook and sew and become thoroughly domesticated, and see that Joddy kept all his engagements—he was dreadfully absent-minded." "Have you ever had any ambitions to do something else with your life?" asked her companion. "No, I don't think so. I've always been an ordinary sort of person, without any particular talents." "Except the most important talent a women can possess—that of a home-maker," Timothy said in a low voice. Charity startled, glanced at him to look away again, her cheeks colouring in her confusion. " Look," she said hurriedly, " is that a clump of bluebells still blooming—over there, to the left of that tree stump? Surely it's rather late for them to be out." "Spring comes later here than down in the south," Timothy said, proceeding leisurely to follow her example and get out of the car. Charity was already kneeling amongst the flowers, her slim fingers busy. The doctor seated himself on a tree-stump. " Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked. "Of course not, go right ahead," Charity replied.

The man leisurely filled his pipe, his eyes on her neat centre parting, white as a peeled almond, that ran underneath the plait, across the downbent, smooth head. "I like the scent of your tobacco," Charity said, her head still bent. Timothy puffed away contentedly at his beloved old pipe. " I'm rather fond of it myself; a pipe is a man's best friend, especially when one's feeling fed up with life." Charity raised her head. " You do look tired," she said sympathetically. " Have you had a very tiring day?" Timothy ran his hand wearily through his fair hair. " I had rather a difficult confinement case this afternoon, but talking shop is out of place up here." Charity knelt up. "No, it isn't; please do. I've told you my life story; you might reciprocate and do the same." "Very well." The young doctor shrugged back resignedly. " On your own head be it." Timothy twisted round on his seat. " I was born down in that valley; my brother and I. My father was the local doctor—the only doctor for miles around. Johnny and I both wanted to be doctors right from the beginning. We used to practise on anything— birds' broken wings, cats that had been caught in traps laid in the woods. I even prevailed on one of the village kids to cut his arm with a penknife so that I could bandage it Unfortunately, he cut too deeply and bled like a stuck pig over the pair of us. We looked as though we'd been bathing in each other's gore." Timothy smiled reminiscently. "When our respective families saw us, Bill's mother swooned away, and my mother frantically fetched Dad back from a case. He gave me a darn good hiding, then took me into his study

and instructed me in the correct way to treat an open wound. Another time we had a cousin staying with us—a girl. Johnny and I both had the usual small boy's contempt for girls, but we hung round Dora; we both wanted her for a patient. When she finally did agree to becoming a subject for our ministrations we bandaged up every conceivable limb, even her head and her entire face. Then my mother called, and we both ran off and left the poor girl wrapped round like a cocoon. I think when they finally discovered Dora she was practically suffocated. Johnny, my brother, loved Little Marth. He passed his exams a fully fledged doctor and became Dad's partner—a local G.P. That never appealed to me. I was madly keen to take up research work, especially the study of cancer." Timothy's pipe had long since gone out, but he didn't notice. His eye were fixed unseeingly upon the roofs of the village, just visible down in the valley. "I studied—God! how I studied," he said slowly— " to take my degree and be free to follow my heart's desire." Timothy drew deeply on his cold pipe. "Well, I did it. After I received my degree I came home here to Little Marth for a holiday before starting my new job at the research station. Johnny had been Dad's partner for just over a year. He was in his element as an ordinary doctor, bringing babies into the world, doing the thousand-and-one jobs a village doctor has to do. Don't," the man added hastily, " think for a minute that I'm belittling ordinary practitioners—they're the salt of the medical profession—but research was absolutely in my blood, the very core of my being." "Was?" the girl queried.

Timothy bent and knocked out his pipe on the tree stump. "Yes, my research work is over and finished," he said quietly. " My brother was killed soon after that holiday, in a car crash. It practically broke the old man up; he was ailing for a long time and then he was worrying about the practice, about his 'people'. So I threw up my job and came here to Little Marth, chucked overboard all my dreams and aspirations and came back to settle down ' to giving out pink pills and coloured water,'" he finished ironically. "That was rather fine of you, Timothy," Charity said slowly. The man shrugged his shoulders." Oh, don't think me nobler than I am—er—it was just—well, I couldn't stand the pleading look in the old man's eyes, although he never said a word. He died soon after I took over the practice; I guess he never really recovered from Johnny's death; but in my depressed moments it's something to know that I made him happy before the end. And then, of course, there was Mother. ..." Charity's eyes were wet." All your plans and hopes just crushed." Timothy looked across at the slight figure kneeling up among the bluebells, her arms full of the dainty spring flowers. It was dark, but he could see her small upturned face and those large, unusual eyes, glistening with unshed tears—tears brought there listening to his troubles. Swiftly the man crossed the grass and knelt down beside the girl. "Charity! for years I've carried a mental picture of the woman that I wanted for my wife. I think I've found her at last. My dear, I'm falling in love with you. Do you mind?" Charity caught her breath sharply. " But. . . but we only met today! "

"I feel as though I'd known you always," Timothy answered steadily. " But I don't want to rush you... only ... is there anyone else in your life, Charity?" "You mean ... another man? ... No, I've never been in love." His pleasant young face lit up. He caught her hand. " Then let me teach you to love, my sweet." Charity shrank away from him like a wild young thing sensing a trap, Timothy thought. "Don't be afraid, my sweet. I don't want my love to distress or annoy you, Charity." "It isn't that," the girl answered hesitantly. " Any woman is always flattered by a man's love. Only..." and she knitted her brows in the effort to explain. She looked at his earnest young face on a level with her own and glanced away quickly." I like you, Timothy; but I'm not in love with you. I don't think," she added honestly, " that I want to fall in love—at least, not yet." "As long as there's no one else, then I can go on hoping," Timothy said cheerfully. He opened her fingers and bent his head and laid his lips on the soft palm, Charity looked down at the bent fair head. He was rather sweet and nice. The man gently closed her hand. " That's something to take to bed with you, to make you remember me in your dreams." Charity rose to her feet, her arms clasping the flowers. "Take me back, Timothy; it's getting late."

The young doctor stopped the car at the gate leading to Raven's Rest. "When am I going to see you again?" "I don't know, Timothy—I don't know how much spare time I shall have away from Diane, and I promised Kit to spend some time with her." "Well, if you haven't rung Marlborough 210 by the end of the week, I shall come to find you." Charity made her way down the garden path humming a little tune. But her adventures were not yet over. A cat was crying piteously up in one of the tall trees. By craning her neck, Charity could see that it was Blackie. "Well, you silly cat," she admonished." Why don't you climb down the same way that you climbed up?" But to all her coaxing and calls, Blackie just returned a piteous crying. The girl placed five flowers on the ground by the trunk of the tree. She gave vent to an exasperated sigh. "I suppose I shall have to climb up and release you, you stupid cat. I can't leave you crying there all night; but it would happen when I'm wearing my best suit!" She climbed up steadily and easily, the bark rough under her palms; she reached out one hand and stroked the frightened animal; it rubbed its head under her caressing fingers with a grateful purr. Charity gingerly started on her downward journey. It was much easier to climb up than down. The cat, snuggled in her arms, was loudly purring.

"Yes," Charity told him sternly, " you're happy now, aren't you?" She was feeling for an elusive foothold when a hand clasped her ankles and a pair of arms came round her slim waist; the girl and the cat were swung down on, to terra firma by Marcus Baron. Charity went quite white and pushed his arms away. " This silly cat had got itself stuck up in the tree," she said in an oddly nervous voice." I thought cats had an instinct for climbing." Baron put out a lazy hand and stroked Blackie's head. " Sometimes the height scares them; then if they're lucky a lady rushes to their—er—rescue. If you'd put your toes in that particular foothold, the pair of you would have come tumbling down to the ground." Blackie, still in her arms, arched his head under her stroking fingers. The night was very still. Grasshoppers sang in the long grass. Charity wanted to go into the house away from the man who disquieted her so, but her feet seemed strangely laggard to obey her will. A barn owl flew out, hooting loudly. She started nervously. "I see you're unused to our peaceful countryside," Baron said sarcastically. " You'd better go to bed, Miss Tremayne, and tuck your head under the clothes." Charity gently put Blackie on the ground and picked up her flowers. " Good night, Mr. Baron," she said with quiet dignity, and left him.

CHAPTER FOUR DANNY PEDDER came whistling round the side of the cow-yard. He carried a bucket in one hand and a dung-fork in the other. It was Sunday morning, but farm work was a seven-day-a-week job. He passed his boss coming out of the shed. Baron carried a load of fragrant hay poised on the end of his pitchfork. "Ah," Danny said, eyeing the hay approvingly, " reckon the li'l ole cows will be right glad to get that down 'em." "Yes," Baron answered, " but we've almost come to the last of the clover ley. If the weather holds right, we should be cutting in another three weeks. What do you think, Danny?" Danny set down his bucket with a bang. " Aye, I was up in Clay Hill last night, me and my li'l ole dog. And I seed as 'ow that trefoil be almost ripe for cutting." "Um, yes, we had a goodish bit off that field last year. What did you think of Strawberry, this morning?" Danny rubbed his chin reflectively, the bristles rasping under his fingers. He shaved only once- a week, and that was on Sunday, after he'd finished his morning's work. " Reckon she'll be calving down to-night," he said. " I left her out; thought she'd be all right. Going to be a sweaty day to-day. Reckon there'll be a bit of frost tonight, though." "Oh, yes," Baron said, "you'd better drive her up this afternoon after milking. Put her in the shed next to the dairy; I did clean it up. You can litter it out with fresh straw." Marcus Baron walked up towards the house. He reflected that his stockman was probably right about the weather. It looked as

though it was going to be a perfect June day. Marcus leaned against the gate. He could see the plume of grey smoke lazily spiralling up into the sky. Pedalling furiously along the road was old Britch, the village postman, on his way to church. He was a sidesman. Marcus turned his head; he had heard a child's laugh, sweet and high. His daughter and her governess were making their way up the garden path to the road. Baron watched them. He knew where they were going. To the church—the grey, lichen-covered church in Little Marth. Charity had asked Sophie the first Sunday morning she was at Raven's Rest if he would mind if she took Diane along with her. Sophie had just bluntly told him the child was going, and that had been that. Diane was skipping along holding Miss Tremayne's hand. The young farmer's thoughts idly centred about the girl. It was all of ten weeks since she'd first set foot at Raven's Rest. True to the conditions laid down, he had seen hardly anything of Charity or Diane. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of the flutter of a skirt vanishing round a corner. Occasionally he heard a gay laugh ringing through the old house, hastily muted. Charity Tremayne was an odd little creature, reflected Baron— certainly no beauty; he couldn't even call to mind her features. All her meals she took upstairs in the nursery with Diane. What the girl did with her evenings he didn't know, or care, so long as she kept out of his way. Marcus fetched out his pipe. His mind wandered to his farm, his land. He would walk over to Clay Hill after lunch and look at that trefoil. If Danny was right—and he usually was— they would soon be cutting. The clover in the next field, Forty Acres, would soon be ready, too. Almost certainly some of his farm-hands would be looking the grass over. They worked on the land all the week, and on Sundays, they walked

over the fields with their friends and families comparing the crops and animals of neighbouring farmers, to his advantage or disadvantage, as the case might be. Hands came over Marcus's eyes, shutting out the sunshine, disturbing his musing. . . . Soft, scented palms gave the owner away. Marcus broke away. " What are you doing here, Sheila?" Sheila pouted, which she did very attractively. " If Mahomet won't come to the mountain, darling -" "I'm a hard-working farmer. Do you think I've nothing else to do but run after you? I leave that to fools like Freddie Brown." Sheila bit her lip. She came closer and looked appealingly at the man. " Be nice to me, Marcus. I had a rotten day yesterday." "Yes, I heard all about it. Well, you've been courting trouble long enough, Sheila, and Nemesis finally caught up with you," Marcus returned un- sympathetically. " I suppose your driving licence was endorsed." "Yes, for a whole year," the girl cried angrily. " And it was all the fault of that beast Timothy Danes. If he hadn't made such a song and dance about the wretched kid, Daddy would have been able to smooth matters over. I could have given the mother some money and settled the whole thing out of court. But I'll get even with that supercilious doctor," Sheila ended vindictively. Marcus leaned against the gate, surveying her dispassionately. " What a virago you can be, Sheila! If you were honest—which women never are, even to themselves—you'd admit that it's not only because he stopped your fun and games on the road that

you're annoyed with Danes. Oh no, it's because he is the only man in Little Marth, beside my humble self, who hasn't fallen for your charms and let you walk over him." "Oh, but, Marcus, you do like me just a teeny bit, don't you?" Sheila put her sleek head on one side in a pretty gesture, secure in the power and knowledge of her beauty and charm. Baron relit his pipe. " If you think I'm in love with you, you're making a very big mistake," he said calmly. " You're amusing to take out sometimes— when I'm in the mood for feminine company—but that's all. I can see right through you, Sheila: all your stupid little affectations and vanities, your selfishness and temper, your conceit and your pet idea that money can do and buy everything. And what I see, I dislike intensely/Good morning." Sheila bit her lip angrily; she ran after the man and caught his arm. " Marcus, please, I came to ask you to come over to dinner tonight—just you and me and Daddy. Will you come?" He shook her off. " No; I don't know—perhaps. I may feel more in the mood for you tonight; at the moment you and your whole crowd sicken me. And now, if you'll excuse me, / have work to do." Sheila Martin turned slowly. Her lower lip protruded ominously. The varied assortment of nannies who had passed through Barrowmead Court during her childhood would have recognised the signs of an approaching storm. She was furious; she had ranted and raved yesterday in court and at home. That morning, instead of sleeping luxuriously in bed, she had got up at a god-forsaken early hour, so that she could find Marcus and gain his sympathy. She had worn her new white Shetland sweater that suited her admirably; she had walked—actually walked—all the way over to

Raven's Rest. And what had she got for her pains? A pious lecture. Sheila kicked sulkily at a stone. Instead of sympathetic attention and admiration to assuage her wounded vanity, Marcus had given her a severe snubbing. There were plenty of men who would have been delighted to comfort her, but Sheila Martin wanted Marcus— Marcus— Marcus. She threw herself prone on the grass and burst into tempestuous sobs, kicking her heels and beating her hands in sheer temper. Sheila could never learn to hide her reaction to events that she couldn't control.

Diane skipped merrily along the winding road. "Charity, I do like going to church," she confided. " I like watching the little boys sing. Charity, why does the min—the minister "— she brought the word out triumphantly—" twirl his glasses when he talks to us?" The governess gravely considered the matter. " It probably helps him to concentrate. That's a big word, poppet—it means to think hard." Diane tried to say the word 'concentrate'. She was duly satisfied with the answer. That was the nicest thing about Charity—she never said " Run away " or " Don't bother me now, I'm busy " when you had a question you badly wanted to ask. The two of them passed old Bob Mitchell. He was on his way to the Barley Corn, where he would sit outside in the sun, with his pint of ale, all the morning. He pinched Diane's cheek. " Hello, my pretty. Where be you going?" "We're going to church," she told him sedately.

Bob chuckled deeply, " Aye, that's where I shall be going one day—when I'm in me coffin." A little white head poked his way inquisitively out of the old poacher's pocket. The child gave a delighted cry, " Charity, it's a little puppy." Diane stroked its soft head, and a warm pink tongue licked her hand inquiringly. " He kissed me! he kissed me! " the child almost danced. " Oh! " she gave a deep sigh of longing. "How I wish I had a puppy!" Bob spat accurately into the hedge. " You want to go up to the wishing-well, then, my little pretty." "The wishing-well?" Diane repeated, with rounded eyes. "Yes," the old man pointed with his stick. " See that hill yonder ? Well, half-way up there's a little cave, and the well's just inside. 'Tis called Raleigh's Well, on account of Sir Walter Raleigh's supposed to have wished there before he sailed over the ocean. They do say as if you go up there about evening-time and drop a penny down the well, wishing hard at the same time, you'll get your wish." "O—h." Diane turned to Charity. " Can we go?" "No," Charity said firmly. " I'm afraid we can't. Come along, Diane, we shall be late for church. Good morning, Bob." "But, Charity," Diane protested, pulling at her governess's hand, " why can't we go?" "Because at seven o'clock in the evening you're in bed and fast asleep."

The child would have continued pleading, but by now they had arrived at the church porch. They weren't late, but the church bell had finished calling the faithful to worship. Heads turned as the two made their way down the centre aisle, although this was the tenth Sunday that Charity had taken Diane there. They made a pretty picture—the girl and the child, Charity in her grey woollen tailored dress and grey suede court shoes, with a long amethyst necklace to match her eyes. The colour was repeated in her mauve suede gloves, belt and bag. Diane was in white: a thin white coat over a white silk dress, little white shoes and socks, and a large white bow perched in her curls. Charity had given her a tiny handbag— one of her own childhood possessions. It had sent the child into a veritable rapture of joy and delight. The bag held a handkerchief and a little purse with her collection money inside, and a tiny perfume bottle in the shape of a miniature top hat, also given to her by her governess. This Diane fished out at intervals during the service, holding it gravely to her small nose. Several of the congregation came up and spoke to Charity after the service was over—to ask her if she liked Little Marth and to pat Diane's head. A pleasant-faced woman introduced herself as the vicar's wife. "I'm Mrs. Fairford. I'm so sorry I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before, Miss Tremayne," she said apologetically. " I've been away looking after my mother. She's just gone into a nursing home. And David, my husband, is so dreadfully absentminded. He probably thought that you had been a member of his congregation for years. I should love to have you to tea one afternoon, Miss Tremayne, and do bring Diane, too." Mrs. Fairford fondled the child's curls. " I've two little girls of my own with whom you can play. You'd like that, wouldn't you, dear?" Diane retreated behind Charity's skirts.

Both the women smiled, and Charity apologised. " She's still rather shy with strangers; thank you for your kind invitation. I should like to come very much." "Well, you just ring me up, my dear, at the Vicarage and let me know which day would be most convenient for you. Now I must rush off, if you'll excuse me." Charity smiled, watching the cosy woman bustle briskly up to a fellow-member of the congregation. She knew the thousand and one jobs that fell to the lot of a minister's wife. "Come along, my pet. We'll pop in and see Auntie Kit on our way home to lunch." "Do I have to go and play with those other children, Charity?" Diane asked, nervously. "But it will be great fun," the girl assured her. " I shall be there, and we can play so many different games when there are more than the two of us." Kit was lounging in a deck chair in her garden at the back of the cottage. A writing-pad on her knees, she appeared to be deep in thought as the two came round the crazy-paved path. Kit glanced up as their shadows fell across the pad. "Hi there." Diane nestled against Kit's face. " We've been to church. Auntie Kit, and we're going to tea wiv two little girls, Charity and me, " she announced all in one breath. "Charity and I," the girl corrected.

Kit Harcombe put her arms around the little figure and smoothed the tumbled curls out of the child's eyes. "If you go into the kitchen, dear, I think Saunders has some nice cool lemonade for you." Charity sank down into a chair beside her friend. "Well, how's everything?" Kit inquired. Charity crossed her arms behind her head; she stretched luxuriously. " Everything's fine, I think. I believe Sophie is beginning to like me." "Yes," Kit said. "She told me when I met her in the village that you were a nice, sensible girl without any airs and graces! " Charity wrinkled up her nose. "Is that the impression I give to people? Nice, sensible. . . . Ugh! one might just as well be compared to a rice pudding." She examined her finger-nails carefully. " I don't suppose they apply those adjectives to Sheila Martin, do they?" Kit gave the girl a sidelong glance. Oho! sits the wind in that quarter? she thought. " They probably compare that young lady with a good many things, but not all of them edible," she said aloud only. " To my mind she's like champagne; heady and exciting, but leaving the same aftermath—a nasty taste in one's mouth and an aching head." Charity looked away across the sunlit garden. "Charity," Kit asked softly, " you're not falling in love with Marcus by any chance, are you?"

The girl turned sharply. " Of course I'm not! Why, why . . . what a ridiculous idea! I've hardly seen the man and, besides . . ." Her voice trailed away. Hot colour flooded her face and neck. Kit leaned across and patted her hand. " All right, all right, my child," she soothed. " Don't fly off the handle. Only I shouldn't like to see you get hurt. I'm fond of Marcus, like my own son, but he isn't the right type of man for you, Charity." Charity extricated herself from the deck chair with averted face. " I'll call Diane; we'll be late for lunch." The older woman caught the girl's arm as she passed. " You're not angry with me, are you, my dear?" she asked, half wistfully. Charity looked unwillingly down at Kit, to meet that shrewd, whimsical, kindly gaze. Her mood broke. She bent down and hugged her friend impulsively. " No, of course not. Don't take any notice of me. Only it was such a fantastic thing to suggest." And yet was it? Walking home to Raven's Rest, Charity couldn't rid her mind of Kit's words. Diane skipped along chattering happily, but her governess answered abstractedly. No, of course, it wasn't possible to love Marcus Baron—a man she had scarcely met. Charity Tremayne hadn't known many men in her life. Only once had she been kissed. After a party, her partner, a son of one of her father's friends, had taken her out into the garden to cool off after the dance. The moonlight, patterning the garden with silver light, had stirred the young man to sentimentality; he had clumsily tried to kiss his partner. Charity's main reaction to his kiss had been, first that he was holding her as though she were a sack of potatoes, and secondly his suit smelt of mothballs. The arrival home broke into Charity's thoughts. Sophie had their lunch ready and waiting. Sunday's lunch was always substantial:

sultana-and-currant pudding; meat and roast potatoes, peas, carrots, creamed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, followed by cherry tart and cream—the type of meal one needed to sleep off. Charity always helped Sophie with the dishes on Sunday, the one time in the week she insisted. The afternoon sunshine lay across the little sunken garden. Charity, established in a comfortable garden chair, stretched luxuriously in the warmth and light. The sunshine sent an almost sensuous feeling of contentment through her entire being. Diane played on the grass beside her chair. The dolls were ranged round in a circle; she was holding a tea-party. Sophie had given the child some milk and sugar and pieces of stale cake. Charity lazily watched her. Diane was intently pouring the milk into the little cups, adding the sugar and stirring industriously. This she would politely hand to one of her guests, together with a morsel of cake on the doll's plate. The lazy summer afternoon wore away. Sophie came down the path. Although the day was hot, she was attired in her usual Sunday garb of black coat and skirt, and a weird and wonderful Sunday hat with nodding black plumes, securely screwed on her scanty white hair. Every Sunday afternoon, wet or fine, Sophie Milson walked down to Little Marth, to take tea with her sister and go to church. She stopped by Charity's chair. "I've left everything ready, Miss Charity. You only need to put the kettle on and make the tea for you and Miss Diane. The master's out. He won't be in to tea—he's dining over at Barrowmead Court to-night." Charity glanced at her watch. Four o'clock. She lay back in the chair and closed her eyes. She had brought a book out with her, but she felt too lazy to read. She lay thinking. Sophie's mention of

Marcus had brought back the morning's train of thought. Charity clasped her hands behind her head. She tried to analyse her emotions. This .. . this odd feeling that she felt, whenever she saw her employer, wasn't love as she wanted to experience it. Not the love she had been taught by her father to want to feel for the man of her choice. . . . Her choice . . . Charity out a hand before her mouth to stifle a yawn. The heavy lunch, combined with the warm sunshine, culminated in a feeling of drowsiness. An early bee bumbled its way across the garden. An aeroplane, a speck in the pure blue sky, kept its steady course across the heavens. Charity slept. The afternoon slipped away into early evening. The trees cast their shadows across the garden. The girl woke slowly. She glanced round, stretching like a cat. The dolls lay on the grass; the tea-set was stacked up tidily; but Diane was nowhere to be seen. The little monkey—while her father was out she'd probably gone down into the yard to watch Danny feed the animals. The girl glanced at her watch. Goodness! six o'clock already. Charity blinked in the dimness of the kitchen. After the bright sunshine she could hardly see. She poked up the fire, filled the kettle and put it on the range. On an impulse she fetched in the teatrolley. Marcus Baron was out; it would be nice to have tea in the garden. She went to the gate and called Diane. She came back, made the tea and wheeled it out into the garden and poured herself a cup. The naughty child, she thought; she must have heard me calling. I'll finish my tea and then I'll walk down and find her. . . Charity replaced the tea-cosy; she glanced at her watch again. Sixthirty. High time that young lady was tucked up in bed. . . . Danny was whistling in the loft as Charity poked her head round the door.

"Diane, come and have your tea, it's late; you should be in bed by now." Danny rose from his knees among the chaff he'd been stuffing into a sack. He regarded Charity with amazement. " Miss Diane ain't here, miss." The girl stared at him, at a loss. " I felt sure she was down here with you and the animals. I dropped off to sleep for a couple of hours. When I woke she'd disappeared. Perhaps she's up in her bedroom. I'll go and see." The pretty nursery was cool and fragrant. A stray wind caressed the curtains. It was all very quiet—too quiet, even for a child like Diane, to be in the room. With a mounting sense of uneasiness, Charity went over the rest of the house; even into Marcus's bedroom and study. All the rooms were quiet and still. She called Diane's name; and the sound echoed back in the empty stillness. Charity ran down to the stackyard again. "Danny," she said breathlessly, " Diane's nowhere in die house." Danny took off his cap and scratched his-head. " Reckon we'd better scout round the fields near the house. I'll go round by the wheat-field and you go round by the paddock, missie." Charity shivered as she hurried across the meadow. It was getting cold; the warmth of the June day was giving place to the frosty evening. She called and searched; searched and called. Charity made her way to the house to meet Danny back from his fruitless search. " Where can she be?" the girl cried. " She'-s never been out this late before, and it's getting cold."

"Aye," the old man said, " 'tis the frost. Now, missie, I'll go right round the farm's boundaries, and you see if you can get hold of the master." "I'll phone him right away," she promised. Waiting, Charity doodled meaningless figures on the message-pad. She could hear the bell ringing and ringing at the other end. A woman's voice answered the phone. Charity recognised it right away. " May I speak to Mr. Baron, please?" "Who is calling?" "It's Miss Tremayne." There was a pause; then the voice answered almost cautiously, " He's not here at the moment. Can I take a message?" Charity hung on to the phone. " Are you sure he isn't there? It's very important." "I've said that he isn't," Sheila Martin repeated coldly. "Well, would you tell him that his daughter has disappeared and ask him to come back immediately?" and Charity banged down the receiver; she was in no mood to bandy words with Sheila Martin. She looked again at her wrist watch. Seven-thirty. Where could Diane be? She was so little, and the wind was rising. On an impulse Charity picked up the phone again. She asked for Timothy Danes' number. Luckily the doctor was at home. It was a great comfort to the worried girl to hear his steady, reassuring voice. "I'll be at Raven's Rest within five minutes," the doctor promised.

Charity ran out when she heard Ole Faithful chug to a stop. " Oh, Timothy, what can have happened to the child?" His hand closed on hers. " Steady now, take your time and tell me what's happened, from the beginning." Charity regained some of .her poise. She retailed how the sun had sent her into an unusual snooze; how, when she had woken up, Diane had disappeared. Timothy was comforting, blessedly male. " We'll take Ole Faithful and scour the lanes. I shouldn't get too alarmed. The child might have taken it into her head to go and see Kit; or she may have wandered off to pick flowers or something." The doctor could feel the tenseness in the slight figure beside him; she sat forward on the edge of the car seat.." Try to relax, my dear," he said gently. Charity turned to him anxiously, " Timothy, I can't. I feel it's all my fault. I was in charge of her and "—the young voice faltered— " I—I fell asleep. Timothy, she's only a baby, to be out alone in the dark. If anything has happened to her ... I shall never forgive myself," she added wildly. "My dear, no one can lay any blame at your door. It was a perfectly natural thing to do, fall asleep. Don't distress yourself unduly. She's probably playing a childish prank, hiding somewhere." "But Diane isn't like that. She isn't the kind of child to, play tricks. She was such a grave, sweet little thing." Charity put her hand up to her mouth. " Why do I use the past tense?" she cried, in a wondering, horrified tone. ...

Apple-tree Cottage was locked; no one was at home. Timothy drove the car down the lanes, both of them searching, scouring. They questioned people in the village. No one had seen anything of the child. Several of the villagers volunteered to form a searchparty. The doctor declared the best thing to do was to return to the house and see if Danny had any news. Perhaps by now her father had found the child. . . . Danny was in the kitchen talking to Sophie... The old nurse was standing by the kitchen table, still wearing her hat, her umbrella clutched in her hand. She turned a drawn face as they entered. Charity went straight to the old man. "Danny, haven't you found her yet?" He shook his grizzled head. " No,' and I bin round all the farm. Young Tim helped me, too, and Bob Mitchell. The young missie ain't nowhere about there." There was silence in the kitchen—a silence broken by Sophie collapsing heavily into a chair, " My little lamb, my baby. ..." Charity flew to the usually indomitable old nurse. " Don't cry, Sophie, we'll find her." "But it ain't natural for the sweet little darling to go off like this; she's been enticed away, or fell into one o' they nasty ponds, you mark my words." The girl's eyes found the young doctor's in sudden stark fear. Surely not? Diane drowned in one of those dreadful deep ponds that lay at the back of the farm. "You stay here with Sophie," Timothy ordered firmly. " Danny, get some rope from the barn, find young Tim and get in my car. We'll go down to the ponds right away."

Charity paced up and down the tiled floor of the kitchen in dreadful desperation. " Hasn't her father arrived yet?" she asked Sophie. The old woman wiped her eyes. " No, I don't think so; I only just got home from church. What Mr. Marcus will say when he knows, I don't know. To think of my poor wee lamb out there in the cold, all by herself," and Sophie rocked herself to and fro in her chair. Charity couldn't keep still. She kept going over in her mind all the various places Diane and herself had been in the last ten weeks. The church! Diane had said only this morning she had liked it there. Perhaps the usually timid child had taken it into her head to go there on her own; perhaps, unknown to anyone, the little girl had wandered up into the organ loft, or the belfry. . . . Charity clutched desperately at the idea. She flew upstairs to get her torch. Fear—fear of seeing the little plump body she had bathed, broken and still, lent wings to her feet. The girl sped down the road to the village. The vicar was just closing the church door. He gazed mildly at the distraught young woman, with her incoherent pleas to look over the church; but David Fairford opened the church with alacrity, just as soon as he had sorted out her story. The stone aisles of the empty church echoed dismally to their footsteps. There was no sign of the child anywhere in the building. Charity leaned wearily against the stone font. Her white face looked ghastly in the lights the vicar had switched on. "Oh, where can she be? What has happened to her?" "My dear," Mr. Fairford said gently, " we must leave Diane in the hands of God. Our prayers and wishes go up to Him -" Mr. Fairford broke off.

Charity had uttered a half-strangled cry. She gazed at him unseeingly. " Wishes—wishes -" she muttered. " Of course, that's where Diane's gone: to Raleigh's Well!" The girl rushed out of the church before the bewildered clergyman could question her. Charity climbed upwards in frantic haste. She remembered which hill it had been that Bob had pointed out: the one rising behind the church. The grass was slippery under the leather soles of her shoes. The night air was growing chilly. Charity shivered and drew the jacket of her dress closer round her body. The going was steeper now. The girl grasped the tufts of grass in one hand to help pull her up. With the other she shone the torch through the gathering darkness. Charity stopped and called, but the only thing that moved was an inquisitive hillside sheep, disturbed from its grazing. The night was still; sounds carried on the quiet air. When Charity dislodged some stones, she could hear them rattling on down the hillside. At last the girl found the cave. She hoisted herself over the ledge. " Diane, are you in here? Where are you?" Her voice echoed eerily through the cave like a disembodied spirit calling. . . . She advanced gingerly and shone the torch in front of her. Her foot struck something. . . The girl bent and picked it up. . . . It was a doll... The lip of the well lay about a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave. With an absolute horror of what she might see, Charity knelt down and shone the torch over the edge. The steady little beam lit up the inky depths. It reflected back from the shimmer of water. What was that—over there to the right? Quite a long way down, huddled on a ledge that ran all the way round the well, was something that looked like a bundle of old clothes; but Charity knew, with a despairing, cold feeling of horror clutching at her heart, that it was Diane. In the beam of the torch she could see the child lying unnaturally still. But at any moment, if she was still

alive—and please God she was—Diane might stir and fall off the ledge down into the icy depths. Charity's mind raced desperately. There was a knob of rock projecting near the well's mouth. If only she had a rope or something, she could climb down; lift Diane on to her back and bring her safely up to the top. If she went now, all the way back to the village for help, it might come too late. The girl acted swiftly. With the competence that characterised most of her actions, she unbuckled the thin leather belt from around her waist. Charity pulled at her shoulder-straps until her slip fell to the ground. This the girl tore into four long strips and knotted them together. She tested each knot with all her strength. She fixed one end of the belt to her home-made rope; the other end she made into a slip-knot, and slipped the noose over the knob of rock. Charity kicked off her shoes: she would make an attempt, anyway; and she would be able to grip the sides of the well better in her stockinged feet. She started on her descent. It was a horrible feeling, swinging out into space over those dark depths. She had tucked the torch into the waistband of her skirt to leave both hands free. Charity felt about the slimy walls with her feet—just blank smooth wall, no ledge. She slowly disengaged one hand, suspending herself with the other, while she extricated the torch. The ledge was about three feet below her dangling legs. If she levered herself from the extra edge of the rope would she land safely, or lose her footing and go down? Very, very slowly, Charity lowered herself, until, with utter thankfulness, she felt her toes touch the ledge. It was just wide enough for the girl to kneel down. Diane was unconscious—whether from shock or the fact that the child had knocked her head as she fell Charity couldn't determine in the pale gleam of the torch. She ran her hands swiftly over the

little body; there didn't seem to be any bones broken, thank goodness. Diane was very cold . . . Charity stripped off her jacket and tenderly wrapped it round the small figure. The problem, now, was to reach the top again. Charity was torn by indecision. If she climbed up alone to run for help there was no guarantee that the rope would hold even her slight weight again. Even if she did reach the top safely, while she was gone, Diane, in her unconsciousness, might make a convulsive movement. The best thing to do would be to stay there to protect the child, and wait to be rescued. Charity knelt down on the cold stone ledge and took the unconscious little body in her arms. There was nothing to do but wait, hope and pray— the inarticulate prayers for help that she had been sending up to God all the evening. How long she sat there Charity never knew; her arms were too cramped by Diane's weight to move them to look at her wristwatch. The minutes seemed like hours; the hours dragged like days. It was penetratingly cold in the dark, dank depths of the well—a cold that, coatless as she was, struck into her very bones. She was scared of losing consciousness and letting Diane fall into the depths. Charity became an automaton; there was only one thought in her brain, dulled by cold, and the pain of her cramped arms: she—must—not—let—go.

Charity came to her senses slowly. She was lying against a masculine shoulder; a hand was holding something to her mouth, and a deep voice was saying, " Drink this." She smelt the heady fumes and turned her head weakly away. " Drink it," the voice urged—" Drink it all up, or I shall hold your nose and pour it down." A firm hand urged her head forward. Charity coughed as

the raw spirit trickled down her throat. It stung like fire and made her eyes water, but it revived her sufficiently to struggle up against the supporting shoulder. "Diane," she murmured, " down the well. I tried . . . please, you must. . ." Marcus Baron soothed her fevered stragglings in a kindly voice that made the exhausted girl wonder if she were dreaming. " Diane's quite safe; Danes has taken her home to tend to her. Now you've come round, that's where we're going." He lifted her in his strong arms like a child. Charity was dimly conscious of a circle of faces lit by the light of hurricane lamps and torches. Baron placed her gently in his car and wrapped her snugly in a blanket. The girl tried to rouse herself on the homeward journey to ask for details, but the man forbade her to talk. "Just lie back and rest," he commanded. The moonlight lit up her companion's profile. Charity was in that exhausted, dream-like state when everything seems unreal. She was just content to lie there and watch the fine contours of Marcus' face; the firm jaw; the contradictory, sensitive modelling of the mouth. A lock of dark hair had fallen forward over his forehead. It seemed quite natural to stretch up a wavering hand and brush it back. Marcus turned from his intent peering ahead to glance at the girl. "Mars," she murmured light-headedly, "Mars— Marcus. . ." Lights were blazing from every window of the farm. Marcus lifted the girl out, blanket and all, and carried her into the kitchen. To Charity, blinking at the sudden bright light, the room seemed full of people.

Marcus headed for the stairs, but Charity struggled weakly against his chest. "Please," she said faintly, " I must know about Diane. . . . I couldn't sleep. . . . Please...." Kit Harcombe came forward. " Put her down in this chair, Marcus," she said quietly. She put her arm gently round the exhausted girl. " Drink this cup of hot tea, dear." It was very strong and sweet and scalding hot, but it took a measure of the faintness away from her. Her brain registered the four persons in the kitchen: Kit at the table; she was pouring cups of tea—Mr. Fairford by the door; Danny sitting in a chair, turning his cap round in his gnarled old hands; and young Tim moving uneasily from one foot to the other. There was a curious tenseness about all of them, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Marcus had gone upstairs. The clock on the wall ticked the slow minutes over with maddening persistence. The inner door opened. Marcus came back accompanied » by Dr. Danes. "How is she?" Kit breathed. Timothy ran his hand wearily through his fair hair. He was in shirtsleeves, his stethoscope still hanging round his neck. " I think she'll be all right; there are no bones broken. She's suffering from a slight touch of concussion. It's too early to tell just what results the shock and exposure will have." "Come and sit down, both of you, and drink a cup of tea. Timothy, you look as though you need one badly," Kit urged. The doctor crossed to Charity." I'll take this young woman up to bed first."

Danny and the boy were moving towards the door, " Now we know as the little 'un's safe we'll be getting along, master." Marcus went over and clapped them on the back. " I can't say what I feel, Danny; but you know you both have my deepest thanks for your help tonight." "That's, all right, master," Danny returned sheepishly. " 'Twas nothing. Good night to all of you." Baron accepted the cup of tea from Kit's hand. "I wonder what made Diane go off like that?" she said thoughtfully. " Have you any idea, Marcus?" "No," he answered. " I've been pondering that myself. It was probably just a childish prank; she -" "It was not a childish trick! " Charity cried. She struggled to her feet, and feebly waved away Timothy's restraining arm, holding on to the table for support. The girl faced Baron accusingly. " Everything that's happened to-night is your fault—your fault entirely. Diane climbed all the way up that hill tonight because of you. Bob Mitchell just told her teasingly this morning that wishes are granted at the wishing well." Charity took a deep, sobbing breath. Her tired, exhausted mind and body were momentarily buoyed up by the flame of her righteous indignation. " In her baby mind she planted the idea that if she wished hard enough, the fairies would give her a daddy, the same as other little girls. A father who would love her and play with her, instead of being whisked out of his way. I shall always see that tiny, frightened little thing climbing up the hill alone. I'm partly to blame," Charity said slowly. " I slept when I should have watched over the child. If Diane doesn't recover I shall never forgive myself, but... yours "— she flung at Baron fiercely—" yours is the main responsibility. If

you'd behaved like a real man when trouble and sorrow came into your life, and faced up to your responsibilities and looked after Diane like any normal parent, this would never have happened. Diane didn't ask to be born; you, her father, helped to bring her into this world; if she dies you've helped to kill her—kill her! " and Charity's hands went out in an annealing gesture before she collapsed, a pathetic little huddle on the floor. Down she fell into the dark pit of complete and utter exhaustion, from which she didn't emerge until the end of the next day. So she never saw her audience, stricken into immobility by her outburst, galvanised into- action. Charity didn't know that it was Marcus Baron who reached her side first, that it was his arms that lifted her unconscious form and carried her to her bedroom. It was Kit who afterwards supplied Charity with the other details of that awful Sunday evening. Kit had descended from the Marlborough bus just in time to collide with Mr. Fairford, tearing across the village green. He was hurrying to his car, to deliver the young girl's cryptic words " Raleigh's Well" to the farm. As soon as Kit Harcombe heard of Diane's disappearing act, she insisted on accompanying the minister. Marcus Baron was in the kitchen when they arrived, his dark features suffused with black anger. Sophie, worrying because her Master Marcus hadn't come home to take charge, had sent one of the farm hands off on his bike to Barrowmead Court. The man had refused to leave Colonel Martin's without seeing his employer. Sheila Martin had, it seemed, come out into the hall and told Ted Joiner that Marcus ' didn't want to be disturbed.' "Of course, I wasn't going to let them put me off like that," recounted Ted, " so I says, dogged like, ' I come here to see the master, and I ain't going to move from 'ere till I 'ave.' Then out strolls the master; 'e'd got a wine-glass in 'is 'and. 'What's going

on?' 'e says. So I speaks up, quiet like: ' Sophie sent me to fetch you, master. Miss Diane's been missing from the farm since six o'clock.' ' Missing! Since six? And it's now nine o'clock! You blasted fools! Why the 'ell wasn't I told sooner?' You all know 'ow 'e lets rip. So of course I soon tells 'im 'ow Miss Tremayne 'ad phoned the Court as soon as she'd found Miss Diane gone." Here Ted always stopped in his story and took a deep swig of beer, as though to moisten his throat for the most exciting part of the narrative. " You ought to 'ave seen 'is face when I told 'im that! Fair give me the shivers. 'E turns to Miss Martin and 'e says quiet enough, but some'ow 'orrible like, ' Did you take a message over the phone for me?' Of course she makes out she don't know nothing about it; says someone else must 'ave answered the phone. But 'e weren't 'avin' any. ' I warn you, Sheila,' 'e says, still in that 'orrible soft voice, ' if I find out you deliberately kept that message back, I'll never want to lay eyes on you again.' 'E gets 'is car out, we puts my bike on the back seat, and off we goes." Marcus soon had things organised. When he heard Mr. Fairford's story, rope and hauling tackle from the barn were put in his car. Danes, back from his fruitless errand, joined the rescue party. They drove their two cars half-way up the hillside until they came to where the track narrowed. They hoisted out the rescue gear and walked the rest of the distance. "I was never so thankful in all my life," Kit told Charity, " when I saw Tim and Marcus carrying you both into the kitchen. I never want to go through such an awful time of waiting and hoping again. I shall never forget it. . . ." She shuddered eloquently. But Kit kept back from Charity her most vivid recollection: the expression on Marcus Baron's face as he stood looking down at the unconscious figure of the girl on the bed. His normally dark, inscrutable features were transformed by a half-puzzled, half-

gentle air. He looked somehow boyish. It was as though Marcus' usual armour of arrogant indifference had cracked and a glimpse of the real man shone through....

CHAPTER FIVE THE little wavelets came rippling in over the shore. The hot July sun, shining fiercely down on the blue sea, struck gleams of metallic light off the water. Charity shaded her eyes with her hand. Cobalt-blue sea and golden sand. Just the right setting for a romantic adventure. Charity sat up and hugged her knees. Her glance travelled round the tiny cove, enclosed at the back by tall cliffs. It took in the small figure of Diane, industriously making sand-pies, and lingered on the outstretched figure of the man lying by her side. Charity smiled fleetingly. If someone had told her a month ago that she would be basking in the sun with Marcus Baron, she—well, she would have thought them exceedingly optimistic, to say the least. And yet so much had happened in these last four weeks since that fateful Sunday. Charity's thoughts travelled backwards. She herself had been convalescent for nearly a week. She had asked to get up after she had recovered consciousness, but Timothy Danes had been adamant. "You're suffering from shock and nervous exhaustion. A week's rest in bed will soon put you right if you stay there. Now don't argue—doctor's orders. Kit is coming in to look after you, and I shall be in every day to see that my orders are being carried out." And in her heart the girl had been thankful to lie back and rest: to get back to her normal poise and balance. Diane had recovered from her ordeal completely; without even the trace of a cold. Possibly her father had helped in this. The shock of almost losing his baby daughter had brought home to him how dear she really was. Nothing had been said— Marcus Baron was a man who kept his own counsel— but when Diane opened her eyes it was to see her daddy sitting on her bed, smiling at her. Since then, Kit reported, father and child had been practically inseparable.

"She's with Marcus nearly the whole of the day. He takes her out in the car, on the tractor, or whatever else he happens to be doing. Marcus now helps Sophie bath the child," and soft-hearted Kit mopped her eyes. " It's lovely to see them, Charity. Diane is a different child now she's happy and loved." The girl, lying on the pillows, smiled warily. " She hasn't been in to see me yet." "No, Timothy's forbidden anyone to visit you until you get up. He wants you to have a week of complete rest; otherwise I expect Marcus-would have been in to see you." Charity caught Kit's hand. " Is . . . Mr. Baron very angry with me?" Kit stared at her. " Angry with you?" "Yes," Charity said. " At the awful way I spoke to him. It all seems rather hazy, but I can remember some of the things that I said were . . . unpardonable," the girl finished in a low voice. " I expect when I get up he'll fire me." She turned her head away, furious because weak tears would flood her eyes. Kit refused to comment. " Stop worrying your silly head; drink up your medicine and lie back and sleep." Charity still felt rather weak the first day she came downstairs. She and Diane were to take their meals in the dining-room now with the master of the house. Charity frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She looked washed out and dreadfully plain; and she was scared, too, of meeting Marcus Baron. Her heart sank every time she remembered the awful scene in the kitchen. What in the world had possessed her to fly out at him? The girl devoutly hoped that Marcus Baron would put her outburst down to her overwrought state, but she very much doubted it. She could just imagine him

inviting her into the study after lunch and giving her a month's notice. ... Oh, he would probably add a few words of formal thanks for saving Diane's life, contriving at the same time to say, in that diabolical, sarcastic way, that if she had been carrying out her duties for which she was paid the child would never have been in danger. Charity miserably leaned her hot forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. She didn't want to go back to London. She didn't want to leave Raven's Rest. Leave Kit and Diane and—— The girl shied away from her own thoughts. She was at home there. Charity had been inexpressibly touched by the farmhands' inquiries after her health. They had sent messages through Kit, and Danny had picked her a basket of strawberries and some flowers from his own garden. Charity straightened her shoulders wearily. Well, she might as well go down and face the music. . .. To her complete and utter amazement, the meal passed off uneventfully. Diane ran to her as soon as she entered the room. The child hugged Charity round the knees. "Charity, I fell down a nasty old well and bumped my head and I lost my Amelia Ann, but Daddy buyed me anover dolly, and he's going to buy me a little black pony wiv a white nose, all of my own, so I can learn to wide," she wound up, with her usual partiality for telling all her news in one breath. Charity picked the child up and buried her face in the bright curls, partly through her emotion at seeing Diane well and strong, and partly to stave off the moment when she must look at Marcus. He came forward and lifted his daughter down. "Steady, darling; Miss Tremayne isn't very strong yet."

Charity met those grey eyes. She experienced the usual flutter of strange emotion mixed with amazement, Marcus was actually smiling. It transformed his whole face. He chatted pleasantly and easily, keeping to impersonal topics. Charity cursed the shyness that made her tongue stiff and stilted, but for the life of her she couldn't answer naturally. When would he start telling her she was to go? She sat at the table, pale and miserable, answering in monosyllables. Luckily Diane helped to lighten the atmosphere with her chatter. Charity was thankful when the meal ended. Marcus Baron had not referred to that fateful Sunday evening, nor to that telephone message. Neither did he during the succeeding days. Charity taught Diane for a few hours each day; the rest of the time the child spent in the hay-fields with her father. The young governess had regained her poise and balanced outlook. She was able to talk with her employer quite easily at meal-times, although she was still rather nervous of his sardonic manner. One morning Charity and Diane had been eating breakfast in the sunny dining-room. Charity was cracking an egg for Diane to peel, when Baron came into the room. "Good morning, Miss Tremayne." "Good morning, Mr. Baron," the girl responded politely. He tweaked Diane's curls. " How's my little girl this morning?" His daughter leaned against his arm with worshipping eyes. "Are we going to get the hay in this morning, Daddy?" the child inquired. "It's all in, chicken. We carted the last load yesterday evening when you were fast asleep in bed," her father answered. " But," Marcus went on, " how would you like to go for a picnic instead?"

"Are you coming, Daddy?" "Yes, it's time I had a day off. Ask Miss Tremayne to excuse you from your lessons today and come with us." The man looked directly at Charity. Diane flung herself on her governess. " Please say yes, you'll come, Charity," she pleaded. Charity looked at Marcus over the child's head. " I don't know," she said hesitantly. " Of course you can go with Daddy, poppet; but I ought to stay and help Sophie with the jam-making." Baron looked very tall and masculine standing by the french windows, his hands thrust into his breeches pockets. " Do you swim?" he asked the girl abruptly. " You do? Good! I thought the three of us could go to a little cove of which I used to be extremely fond when I was a boy. It would do you both good to get some sunshine into your bones, and I feel like a day's holiday." He shrugged his shoulders. " But of course, if you prefer not to come ..." "But I should like to come," Charity said breathlessly. " It was only -What time do you want us to be ready?" Baron glanced at his watch. " Ten-thirty: that will give me time to finish one or two odd jobs. I want to see Eli; he's thatching the haystacks up at Clay Hill. Don't forget to bring your swimsuit. I'll tell Sophie to pack lunch for the three of us," and he was gone. Diane couldn't keep still. She jigged round and round the bedroom. " Daddy said I should find lots of little shells and I might find a mermaid. Have you seen a mermaid, Charity?"

Her governess was looking through the drawers for her swimsuit. " No, but I often looked for one when we used to Spend our holidays by the sea." "Do you know any stories about mermaids, Charity? Will you tell me one?" "Yes, tonight when you go to bed, not now," Charity said firmly, " or we won't be ready when Daddy comes." She washed the child and put on a little print dress, with knickers to match. She brushed Diane's hair and tied a frilled blue sunbonnet over her curls. Charity caught the small figure in a spontaneous hug. Diane was such a sweet, sedate kiddie. Her governess tweaked her curls affectionately. "Run along, poppet, while I get myself ready; go down and see if you can help Sophie—and try to keep clean," she called after the child. Charity twisted in front of the mirror. Her dress was green-andwhite checked cotton. It suited Charity. The demure cut matched her quaint air of grave dignity. As she slipped the white sandals on her bare feet, her heart was singing: " Marcus must like me a little; he can't be very angry, or he wouldn't have asked me to spend a whole day with him." Charity took a last look round the bedroom. She mentally checked. Yes, she had everything—towel, swimsuit and cap, sun-glasses, a silk scarf for Diane to wear to protect her shoulders and back against the sun, a book and pencil for the child to scribble. Oh yes, she'd better take a small tin of sticking- plaster in her bag, in case of cuts on the rocks.

Charity ran lightly down the stairs. The blue sky was cloudless save for a few feathery, white wisps. There was hardly a breath of wind stirring. The girl's step was dancing as she entered the kitchen. Sophie's white head was bent over a wicker picnic basket. " There," she said, " I think that ought to be enough for the three of you." Charity glanced inside. " Enough! " she gasped. " Why, it's an absolute feast." There were slices of breast of chicken, wrapped in a snowy napkin; egg-and-cress sandwiches; sandwiches whose edges revealed pink, succulent ham; piles of thin, dainty slices of brown and white bread- and-butter wrapped in greaseproof paper; a basket of luscious strawberries, and a carton of cream to pour over them; one quart-sized thermos flask of coffee and one of home-made lemonade, and a bottle of fresh, creamy milk for Diane; as well as the necessary implements for eating and drinking. Marcus walked in and stared at the basket with raised brows. " It looks as though you've packed for a regiment. Well, there's no chance of our becoming cannibalistic and eating each other." "What's cana—cana—what you said, Daddy?" Diane inquired. Her father swung her up on his shoulder and pretended to bite her plump little leg. "That's cannibalistic—eating little girl's legs." The child shrieked with merriment. Charity's and Sophie's eyes met in tender understanding amusement.

"Well, if we're all set, we'll be off; we don't want to miss the best of the day," declared the young farmer. Charity climbed in the back seat of the car. She was still rather shy at being alone with Marcus. Besides, Diane would like to watch her father drive. Probably he wouldn't even notice where his daughter's governess sat. If Marcus did notice, he gave no sign. There was a warmth in the air that foretold a temperature to come, unusual for England. Diane knelt on the seat looking out of the window. She was ecstatically happy; the two people she loved best in her small world were with her in the car. " Look, Daddy, there's a bunny wiv a white tail." "That's where a rabbit keeps the powder puff he uses to powder his nose," Baron told her gravely. Diane eyed him doubtfully, then her small face broke into an enchanting grin. " He doesn't, Daddy, you're laughing. There's a funny laugh in your eyes. Charity, Daddy's laughing—bunnies don't have powder-puffs. Daddy, Charity has three powder- puffs; two little teeny pink puffs for her face, and a big 'normous white one, when she has a bath. If I'm a good girl, she lets me use the puff to powder me all over." Diane's hands moved expressively over her small anatomy. She was quiet for a minute, and then she added thoughtfully, " If you're good, Daddy, I 'spect Charity would powder you wiv lovely white scented powder." "Diane!" Charity's face was scarlet. She met Baron's eyes in the driving-mirror; his were twinkling. He struggled with his amusement, but it was too much for him; he gave way to hilarity. In spite of her mortification, Charity joined in his laughter. Children! they came out with such funny things.

The car climbed the hill steadily. With a secret smile, the girl contrasted its silent, swift movement with Ole Faithful's jerky progress. She relaxed back in her seat, content to listen to the child chattering to her father. Charity liked the way Marcus treated Diane: he listened to her gravely and answered her questions. He didn't talk down to the child, as so many adults had the habit of doing. From her vantage point in the back seat the girl watched the man's profile. The bitter, proud lines of his face were softened by interested amusement. His white poplin shirt was open at the neck, showing the muscular lines of his tanned throat. Charity's eyes rested on his capable hands, lying almost negligently on the steering- wheel;-she knew in any moment of emergency they would become firm and strong. What would they be like in a moment of. . . love? . . . Charity wrenched her eyes away and stared steadily out of the window. The car breasted the hill and swung down the other side. They passed fields of corn, the green ears just beginning to show a faint tinge of yellow under the caress of the hot sun. In some of the fields the darker green of the potato plants was white with heavy blossom. Marcus Baron swung the car round and turned off the road into a narrow lane. The trees along either side of it met overhead, like the soaring arch of a cathedral, so that they seemed to be driving through misty green twilight. The car emerged into bright sunlight. Charity caught her breath in delight. "What a lovely spot! " she cried. They had come to a silent standstill, almost on the edge of the cliffs: down below, Charity could see the Atlantic Ocean sparkling in the sunshine.

Baron threw her a brief smile. "Yes, this used to be one of my favourite spots, when I and my—— I haven't been here for some years, though." He lifted Diane out of the car. " Come out, chicken, and get your first glimpse of the sea." From the safe vantage point of her father's arms, the child looked down at the sparkling expanse. " Daddy, it's awful big." .... "You'll love playing in it," he told her reassuringly. " I'll take you in and introduce you to the waves." Baron set his daughter on the grass. " I thought perhaps we could picnic up here after our bathe. I enjoy swimming and basking on the sand, but I'm not very keen on eating amongst it. Of course, if you would prefer to do so..." Charity glanced round. The grass was green and thick. The clump of trees at the back of the clearing would be shady when the sun had reached its zenith. She smiled at Marcus. " I quite agree with you. It's lovely here. I loathe eating my food with sand mixed in it." "Right. I'll lock the car; there's a track winding down to the sands. It's rather narrow, so be careful how you step. Keep behind me. I'll take Diane on my shoulders." Charity undressed behind the rocks. She removed Diane's clothing. All the child needed were her little knickers and sun-hat. She could hear her calling excitedly to her father. Charity felt absurdly loath to leave the friendly shelter of the rocks. She was shy of facing Marcus fully clothed; in her swimsuit the girl felt worse still; somehow, it seemed so inadequate. She need not have been shy; the man's eyes just flickered over the girl as he put Diane up on his shoulders." Come and be introduced to the sea! " Charity had no way of knowing that Marcus Baron had just been startled into an acute awareness of her as an attractive woman. The

mauve swimsuit suited her admirably. The colour accentuated the white skin of her body; the finely darted, strapless brassiere cupped and emphasised her firm young breasts. Charity ran down the beach and plunged into the water. She swam out with strong, sure strokes. The water was beautifully cool over her sun-warmed body. It was a heavenly day for swimming. The girl turned over on to her back and floated, staring dreamily up into the blue sky.... Now Charity lay basking in the sun beside her employer. As the girl idly trickled the warm sand through her fingers, she surreptitiously studied him. Baron had that tall, lean, well-knit figure that women admire. His single garment was a pair of dark blue swimming- trunks. His body was tanned and muscular. Lying back, the grey eyes closed, his face in repose, Marcus appeared younger, happier. There was a slight cleft in his chin which Charity had never before noticed; she had a mad impulse to lay her finger there. Diane ran up, and flung herself on her father. "Daddy, I'm firsty, and I fink I'm hungry, too." Marcus rolled his daughter over in the sand and tickled her until she squealed with delight. " All right, young lady, it is one o'clock. We'll move to the top of the cliffs for lunch." He turned to Charity. " I don't think we need bother to dress yet; or would you rather?" Charity shook her head. " No, I'm quite comfortable like this." The man's eyes lingered on her slim form for an appreciable moment.

It was very pleasant by the car. As far as the eye could see there was the blue sea sparkling in the sunshine. Occasionally, away on the horizon, ships could be distinguished passing to and fro. Marcus spread the car-rugs in the shade of the trees. Charity went on her knees beside the basket and unpacked its contents. Sophie had even added a white tablecloth. The salt water and sparkling air had given a keen edge to their appetites. "I wonder why food always tastes so much better in the open air," Charity said idly, as she inspected the contents of a sandwich. "Probably," Baron answered," a subconscious inheritance from our early primitive ancestors. At the moment all this tastes like the ambrosia and nectar the gods feasted on." "Sugar?" Charity inquired. "Please; two lumps." Diane lifted an enraptured face. " I love strawberries," she informed them blissfully. "Don't eat too many," Charity warned, "or you'll be going to bed with tummy ache, and that wouldn't be a very nice ending to such a lovely day, would it?" "... Do you fink it was strawberry jam the Queen of Hearts put in her tarts?" Diane inquired, with the charming inconsequence of childhood. Charity considered this gravely. "Yes, quite possibly it was. I expect that's why naughty Jack of Hearts stole them." "If I caught him," Diane pronounced severely, "I'd frow him in the fire . . . and his tarts as well," she added.

Charity and Marcus both burst into laughter simultaneously; really, it sounded so quaint. The girl dropped a kiss on Diane's head. " You're a funny bunny.. . . "What do you do about washing up? Shall I pack the dishes back into the basket?" she asked Marcus. He hoisted himself up. " Stack them in and I'll take the basket. There's a little stream at the edge of these trees, if my memory serves me correctly." "I'll help you," she said. He waved her away. " Madam, I assure you I'm the world's best washer-up; you sit there and relax." Diane scrambled to her feet. " I'm coming with you, Daddy. I can wipe," she said proudly. Charity handed him the empty milk-bottle. " Would you fill this with water, please?" The girl sank down on the rugs. Beyond the screen of trees she could hear the child's laughter and the man's deep voice. Charity closed her eyes, sensuously stretching her limbs. Lovely, lovely day, she thought. ... Diane danced back. " Daddy splashed me wiv water, and I saw a bunny wabbit; he looked at me and then wan away." "Did he, darling? It's time you had a little sleep now, poppet." "Do I have to today?" Diane coaxed.

Charity was firm. "Yes, for an hour or so, then you'll wake up as fresh as a daisy." The girl soaked a handkerchief in the water Marcus brought back from the stream and bathed Diane's face and hands. She combed and pinned the curls on top of her head; it would be cooler with the weight of hair off her neck. Charity laid the child down under the trees, lightly wrapped in a rug. In five minutes Diane was fast asleep. Marcus was smoking his pipe, sitting on the running-board of the car. The girl sat down quietly on the grass, steadily looking out to sea. Marcus studied her profile curiously. Charity had unpinned her coronet of hair after her swim, so that the two long brown plaits lay down over her bosom. She sat with her chin slightly lifted, slim legs tucked under her, her hands at either side on the grass bracing her body. Marcus noticed afresh the little air of serene dignity that the girl always carried. She was a restful person to be with altogether, he thought, from the little he'd seen of her. She didn't fidget with her hair or her face, as most women had a habit of doing. She could keep her tongue still, too; although some of the things she did say had a sting to them, Marcus reflected dryly. He removed his pipe. "We've something to discuss, you and I, haven't we?" the man said abruptly. Charity turned her head, startled out of her dreamy content. "I expect you've wondered why I've never referred to that Sunday evening, or thanked you for saving Diane's life." Charity flushed crimson. " Please," she said hurriedly. " It was partly my fault that she was ever in danger; and besides -" The girl stopped abruptly.

"Yes—besides?" Marcus prompted. Charity looked away from him. "Those awful things I said to you," she went on in a low voice. " I'd rather not remind you of them." "But I want to remember them; it was refreshing to hear your candid opinion." "Don't," Charity said miserably. " I—I wasn't conscious of what I was saying." "But you meant it, didn't you?" the man insisted. " Tell me what you really think of me, Miss Tremayne. I should like to know." Charity dug her fingers into the turf. Was Marcus baiting her, or did he really wish to hear her thoughts? She faced him courageously. " I've had quite a lot to do with children," she said, " and I believe that the things that happen in early childhood to a great extent mould children's characters when they are adult. They sense very quickly when they are surrounded with indifference and dislike, instead of the atmosphere of love and trust which is their birthright, and react accordingly. Diane was growing up into a timid, neurotic child; only because of the lack of understanding love. All young things need loving. . ." "Go on," the man prompted softly. "Also, I was sorry for you. Watching your daughter grow step by step from babyhood to childhood and from childhood to girlhood was a rare experience that would perhaps never come your way again. I think you are attempting to do the impossible. Your body is here in the present, but your mind is back in the past; and sooner or later," Charity added slowly, " there will come the realisation of

wasted years—perhaps when it's too late and a full and happy life will have passed you by." She stole a glance at Marcus. The man's mouth was twisted wryly. " You certainly know how to hit hard, young woman." "I'm sorry," Charity said softly, " I didn't mean to hurt you; only you asked me -" . "Yes, I know I did," Marcus agreed. "Well, if it's any satisfaction to you, your outburst—combined with the fear of losing Diane— helped to pull me up out of my slough of despond. I suppose I hadn't realised," he said slowly, " or else I'd forgotten, how keenly a child feels neglected or lost. I shall have to take a few lessons from you, Miss Tremayne, on the correct way to make a good father," Baron added whimsically. He settled himself in a more comfortable position against the wing of the car." To continue this discussion. In the car that night, when you were half conscious, you murmured something about Mars—and another name that I didn't quite catch. What were you thinking of?" he asked curiously. Charity flushed; she seemed rather loath to tell him. " I suppose," she said, " I was partly dreaming; but from the first your name, Marcus, intrigued me. Since we met, I've often thought how well it suited you. I was probably thinking of Mars, the god of war, or Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher, or Mark Anthony, Cleopatra's soldier lover." Baron looked at the girl. " You think I've a little of all those three in my make-up? Rather a curious combination, surely: man of action, man of thought, and man of—love." "No," she answered bravely, " I think it's a very apt combination."

Their eyes met. Charity's hand went to her slim throat. Her heart beat so loudly in her own ears that she thought it must surely be audible to the man. Marcus looked away. " Surely your own name is an unusual one," he said. Charity smiled—her own peculiar, sweet smile that lit up her normally grave young face. " It was my father's choice. When I was born he wanted me to have the name 'Love.' Obviously I couldn't go through life with a name like that, so he used the old Hebrew word, translated into Charity, meaning ' love'." "I think the name is absolutely you," Baron said in a low, curiously roughened voice. " Have you ever been ... in love . . . Charity?" The girl sat quite still, her arms encircling her knees, looking out over the blue water. " No," she answered simply and honestly. " I haven't; and unless my love for a man is as deep and lovely as St. Paul says, then I shall never marry." The silence between them deepened. Charity slowly turned her head and stared at Marcus. He was watching her, a curiously smouldering look in his normally cold grey eyes, and even as she gazed, the man rose and swiftly came across the grass. He stood looking down for a brief moment before he knelt beside her, and reached out a tentative forefinger to touch one of her long braids. "There's just one more thing. Who answered the phone that evening?" Charity sat with downcast eyes. She wouldn't answer him. Marcus lifted her chin. " Tell me," he insisted.

Charity's lovely, candid eyes answered for her. Marcus dropped his hand. " I thought so," he said slowly. The man drew a deep breath. " You know, Charity, it's unusual to find a woman who doesn't jump at the opportunity of belittling another woman. You're different," he went on slowly. " If I believed such a species existed, I should almost believe you were truly all woman—kind, gentle, and loving -" The moment was fraught with tense, dangerous sweetness. Charity sat absolutely still, almost without breathing; she was scared to speak—words would break the spell that bound them. . . . Diane sat up suddenly, rubbing her eyes. "Charity," she wailed, " my leg feels awful funny, like little pins sticking in me." Baron got to his feet, and walked to the edge of the cliff, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Charity released her pent-up breath. The moment of magic was gone; broken by a child's cry. Would it ... ever come her way again? She was conscious of a feeling of anti-climax. Almost with detachment she looked at Marcus's tall figure silhouetted against the sea, noting the muscles of his tanned back. "Charity, I can't get out of this fing," Diane wailed again. The girl rose to her feet in a single lithe movement. The child had managed to get herself wound round and round in the rug like a cocoon. Diane looked so odd that, in spite of the tumultuous emotion within her breast, Charity laughed. She extricated the child and massaged her leg briskly. " It's gone to sleep." "But all of me's been to sleep," Diane protested, " and I don't prick all over."

The child spied her father over Charity's shoulder. " Daddy, are you going to take me on your shoulders in the water again and make lickle pies and a 'normous big castle again?" Marcus strolled towards them. " Not now, dear; the time is getting on. Let Miss Tremayne dress you, and then we'll go and find some tea." Diane's face fell. She didn't want this unusual, exciting day to end; her lip trembled. " I don't want to go home yet," she declared. Baron smiled at her rueful little face. " We aren't going home for tea." "Where are we going, Daddy?" Diane asked curiously. "To see some friends of mine." Marcus picked his daughter up, and tossed her into the air. Diane loved it. "Again, Daddy; frow me up again! " Charity kept her eyes down. She dressed Diane and herself behind the car. Dearly as she loved the child, why, oh, why had she woken at that particular moment? Her employer had been on the verge of giving her his confidence. He was beginning to think of her as a woman—an attractive woman. Charity knew it instinctively. Now Marcus would in ail probability don his armour again ... just as she had succeeded in catching a glimpse of the real man. Charity hid her tell-tale eyes against the child's hair. Diane twisted round. " Are you crying, Charity? Your eyes look awful funny."

Charity bit her lip. " Of course not, poppet." She forced a smile. " It's the sun—it makes my eyes ache. I must put my sun-glasses on." The girl was trying to pin up her hair with the aid of her pocket mirror when Marcus came up behind her. "Leave it down; I like it that way." Charity spun round on her heel. She scanned his face. The man's grey eyes no longer held their look of ardent interest, but they were friendly and smiling, not cold and remote. Her spirits rose. "But your friends," she protested light-heartedly. "They won't mind," Marcus smiled. " Susan's one of the best; you'll like her." Charity returned his smile gravely, " I hope so."

The car slowed down and stopped by the ruins. They had obviously been, at some time in the bygone past, an abbey. Charity turned to her companion in mute inquiry. "This," Marcus said, " is to me, one of the most beautiful spots in the world. I want you to see it; that's why I came this way." The grass round the old abbey was speckled with white daisies growing around the grey stones. Not very much of the building remained—a wall, a crumbling roof, a soaring archway, eloquent memorial to the men who had built their home in so lovely a place. It was very quiet and still, only the birds calling in the crumbling roof.

"When I feel murderous towards my fellow men, and want to get right away from things," Marcus said, " I come here, to the peace and tranquillity of this monastery." Charity eyed his averted face curiously, wonderingly. Marcus Baron; proud, arrogant, cynical; was this the same man? Tranquillity and peace seemed strange companions for him. Marcus stooped suddenly. "That's odd," he said slowly. " I've never seen this growing here before." "What is it?" the girl inquired. Baron held out his hand. He was holding a small purple flower. Charity took it. " It resembles a small pansy," she said doubtfully, examining the flower. "It is a wild pansy, although that isn't what the people round these parts call it," Baron replied. " They usually grow among the corn along with the poppies and corncockles." He stood looking down at his companion's bent head. "The old farmers have a legend about this flower," he said musingly. " They say that the wild pansies were renowned for their sweet scent; people used to come long distances to pick them. Unfortunately, the pansies bloomed at the same time as the corn ripened, and in their eagerness to gather the flowers, people, especially lovers in the evenings, trampled down the ripe ears of corn. This happens year after year. One night, so the story goes, after they'd heard an old farmer calling down curses upon their heads because of the damage inflicted on his crops, the pansies asked their Creator to take away their lovely scent."

Marcus twisted the tiny flower round in his fingers. " Lovely petals, beautifully shaped leaves, but no perfume, so no one bothered to gather them any more. And the same farmer who cursed them said, ' Well, they may have lost their scent, but they've made my heart easy.'" Marcus held the pansy near Charity's upturned face. " So the local name for them is 'heart's ease'. 'Heart's ease'—do you know, the first time I saw you, your eyes intrigued me. They're exactly the same colour as this pansy." Charity sprang to her feet nervously. " Don't you think we should be getting along, Mr. Baron?" she said hurriedly. " Diane's only five, and she's had an exciting day. It's five o'clock now; soon it will be her bedtime," Marcus's mouth turned hard. The girl was obviously anxious to run away from him. "My dear girl, you can't discuss a philosophy of life and love with a man on a hot summer's afternoon and then call him Mister! " Charity flushed, detecting the old note of sardonic humour in his voice. " You're my employer," she said in a low voice. The young farmer's face hardened. " I wonder you don't address me as ' sir ' . . . if you want to be so formal." Marcus eyed the slight figure. " Come over here and ask me properly; then, as you've obviously had more than enough of my company, we'll go." Charity felt perilously near to tears. Marcus changed so quickly. The warmth of his voice, the intimacy of his hand touching her cheek, had started the girl into a wild desire to run away: from his deep man's voice; from the unexpected tender side of his nature, the revelation of which was doing such strange sweet things to her heart and mind. Charity had not really been conscious of her words, and in her confusion she'd annoyed him by her withdrawal.

"Come over here," Marcus repeated in a hard voice." Charity went with laggard feet, to stand in front of the man, her eyes cast down, hands clasped in a childish fashion behind her back. "Look at me," Marcus commanded. Charity kept her eyes fixed on the ground. "Look at me." The heavy lids seemed to lift of their own volition. Marcus put a finger under her soft chin. The colour scalded her face and neck, but the girl met his eyes bravely. Grey eyes, cold now, cold as steel. " Say, ' Please, Marcus, may we go?' " The man's voice was soft, but Charity shivered suddenly at his tone. He was deliberately humiliating her. Charity pulled away. " No, no, I won't." She turned and ran towards the car,' but swift as she was, Marcus was swifter. He caught the girl by the arm and pulled her round to face him. "You will say my name," he said in a hard determined voice. He bent the girl backwards in his arms. " Say it -" The words were uttered almost against Charity's lips. The man's eyes were not cold now. They were blazing fiercely, like molten metal, into her own. Charity closed her eyes. Marcus was holding her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe, much less speak. The pounding of her own

turbulent heart filled her ears. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. " Marcus, may we go now?" For a moment longer he held her, his lips poised above her mouth; then he let her go—so suddenly that she almost fell. He was breathing unsteadily. " You shouldn't defy me," he said curtly. Diane was kneeling up in the window. " I stayed here like Daddy telled me. Was you playing a game with Daddy, Charity? What's that teeny little flower in your hand, Charity? Is it for me?" Charity looked down stupidly; she was still clasping the pansy. She brushed a dazed hand across her eyes. " No, poppet." Diane eyed her governess with interest. " Your eyes look all funny again, Charity. Daddy, Charity's eyes look funny. Is she going to cry?" Baron preoccupied himself starting the car. Luckily it diverted his daughter into asking where they were going. Charity sat well back in her seat; she was trembling. The wild, deep emotion roused by Marcus's touch had left her weak and shaken. She had thought that he was going to kiss her, and when he didn't, her heart cried out in frustration. **** Almost as soon as the car pulled up in front of the farmhouse, the door opened. A plump, white-haired woman in a pink overall ran out to the gate.

"Marcus, is it really you? How lovely to see you! I was only saying to Jim at breakfast time this morning it's a long time since you've been over to see us." "Susan," Marcus said teasingly, " you look more blooming every time I see you. You put every other woman I know in the shade." Charity looked at her employer wonderingly. He was hugging the older woman affectionately. Susan blushed and bridled. " Marcus, get away with you! I'm too old for to listen to your blarney." She raised her voice. " Jim, a surprise. . . . Look who's here!" The stocky, red-faced man in gaiters hastening round the side of the house was obviously as pleased to see Marcus as the woman. He slapped the young farmer on the back and joyously wrung his hand. " Mark, me boy, you've been deserting us lately; you haven't been over in two months; and don't give me the excuse you've been too busy." Baron's hard mouth relaxed in a boyish grin. " Well, now I have turned up, I've brought with me someone you've-been asking to see for a long time." He lifted Diane out of the car. " Diane, say hello to your Aunt Susan and Uncle Jim." The woman went on her knees beside the child. " Your daddy used to come into my kitchen and help me make my cakes when he was a little boy," she said gently. " I'm making some buns now. Would you like to come and help?" Diane retreated precipitately behind her father. Jim Taylor stuck his hands into his breeches pockets. " I've got three puppies in the barn," he said loudly to no one in particular. "One white and two are black. If anyone would like to come with me and see them -"

Diane edged her way forward a little. " Could I hold them in my arms?" "Of course. You come along with me, little lady, and I'll show them to you." Diane looked up at her father. " Daddy come, too." Baron laughed. " All right, I'll come and keep you out of mischief. I want to talk to you about that new fertiliser, anyway, Jim." He stopped abruptly as they were moving off. " Oh, by the way, this is Miss Tremayne, Diane's governess. Charity, this is Susan and Jim Taylor, my very good friends." Charity shook hands with Mrs. Taylor and her husband. That worthy farmer surreptitiously wiped his hand on his breeches before proffering it to the girl. Mrs. Taylor took her by the arm. "You go off and see the bitch and puppies. I'll take Miss Tremayne into the house." In spite of the fact that the farmer's wife had been baking, the old stone kitchen was cool after the heat of the summer afternoon. "I expect you'd like a drink, Miss Tremayne. Would you rather have lemonade or tea?" "I would appreciate a cup of tea," Charity said; " but don't trouble to make one just for me." "Oh, it's no trouble," Susan Taylor answered her. "The kettle is boiling. I was just going to make myself a cup when I heard the car." She hesitated, the tray in-her hands. " Perhaps you'd rather drink it in the parlour."

"Good heavens, no! " the girl replied. " In here, please. I think these old farmhouse kitchens are the nicest part of the houses." Charity spent an enjoyable hour in that kitchen. She heard a lot about Marcus. Mrs. Taylor revealed a good deal of affection for him. She and her husband were childless. They were farmers in a small way. Charity, with her usual good insight, read in her hostess's humorous tales an . uphill struggle of hard work, patience, faith, and good management Susan Taylor had once been a fine-looking woman. Hard manual work alongside her man had aged her before her time. Charity looked at her with wistful respect. No wonder Marcus despised town women. Diane burst into the kitchen. ' "Charity, that man, Uncle Jim, said I could have this little puppy all for my own! " Charity gently took the dog and set him on the floor. A warm pink tongue licked her hand inquiringly. "He's a darling little dog. What are you going to call him, Diane?" The child rested her chin in her hand in a quaintly solemn gesture. " Well, he's so very black, wiv a white nose, and so Daddy said call him Whisky." Susan Taylor laughed. She lifted Diane on to a chair. " Here's a nice glass of milk, dear. You can give Whisky a bowlful to drink if you like." Diane scrambled off the chair with alacrity. " Oh please," may I now?" "Drink your own milk first, Diane," Charity said, firmly.

The child buried her nose in the glass obediently. A firm step sounded in the doorway. Charity's heart leaped madly, although she refrained from looking round. "Well, Susan, what do you think of my daughter?" Marcus asked lazily. Mrs. Taylor looked with tenderness at the child drinking her milk. " She's sweet, Marcus. I'm glad you bought her to see us. Will you come and see me often, dear?" Diane considered her gravely. " Yes, I like your pretty white hair ..." Marcus laughed. " My daughter can flatter, too." "Will you have a cup of tea, Marcus? Or Jim can get you something stronger when he comes in. Where is he, by the way ?" Baron seated himself at the edge of the table. "He's just gone down to the stackyard. He's lending me some rick-pegs for my haystack. Yes, please, I should like a cup of tea, Susan, my pet." She poured it out of the large brown earthenware teapot. " Now I'll go and set the tea while you are drinking it. Would you care for another cup, Miss Tremayne?" Charity caught Baron's eye." I'm sorry, Susan, we can't stay for tea," he said. "Oh, but you must have something to eat now you are here," she said, her hospitable soul distressed. Marcus shot out an arm and looked at his watch. He glanced at his small daughter playing on the floor with the puppy. " I can see signs of the Sandman's coming. It's a quarter past six now, Susan. By the time we reach home, even if we leave now, it will be after

seven. I'll bring Diane over earlier another day, and you can feed us to your heart's content." Susan Taylor reluctantly yielded. "I don't like to think of you going so soon, and without even one of my home-made buns." Marcus set down his cup. " Come along, chicken, say good-bye to your puppy." Diane looked up quickly. " Oh, but Daddy, Uncle Jim said he was mine to take home wiv me?" Charity knelt down beside the child. " Darling, he's only a baby puppy—too little to leave his mother. If you took Whisky home now you wouldn't be able to feed him. In a couple of weeks' time he'll be old enough to leave her; then you can come over with Daddy to fetch him. In the meantime you and I can go into Marlborough and buy a sleeping-basket, and one of those pretty tartan collars and a lead for him." Diane was getting tired; her lower lip quivered ominously. " Diane -" Charity said quietly. The child battled with her disappointment. " Goodbye, Whisky," she whispered in the puppy's ear. " Be a good dog and I'll come and fetch you, and you can come and live wiv me." Baron lifted his daughter in his arms. "That's right, sweetie. Let Auntie Susan take him back to his mother." Jim Taylor appeared in the doorway. " I've had Tom put the rick pegs in the boot, Mark. You're not going already, are you?"

"'Fraid so, Jim. Sorry and all that, but I'll be over next week to look at that milking-machine. I'd like to see it working before I decide to buy it." "Aye, don't leave it so long before your next visit, lad," the old farmer declared. He shook hands vigorously with Charity. " You come over to see us any time, miss; you'll be welcome, won't she, lass?" "Yes, indeed," his wife agreed. " Miss Tremayne and myself have had a nice cosy little chat. She's promised to come and give me a hand with my jam-making." Diane fell asleep in the car against Charity's arm. Marcus drove furiously in a silence his companion felt too shy to break. It wasn't until the car was entering Little Marth that she remembered. "Oh, would you stop at Apple-tree Cottage, please? I've just remembered Sophie asked me to give a message to Kit." "Certainly," her employer said briefly. Charity gently laid the sleeping child along the seat. She alighted from the car just as a trio of laughing people came from the back of the cottage. Kit, Timothy—Charity recognised the third with a delighted cry—Mac. She darted forward to be enfolded in an affectionate embrace and heartily kissed. Kit, watching in the background, saw the reaction on the other two men's faces. Timothy looked thunderstruck, but Marcus Baron's countenance darkened ominously. He reached out a long . arm and slammed the car door. "I'll take Diane home. Sophie can put her to bed. You stay with your—friends," he said curtly. The car had disappeared down the road before Charity, startled, had opened her mouth to protest. A little pucker of distress

appeared between her brows. The man she had addressed as Mac looked amused. " Friend of yours, Charity?" She swung round and met Kit's level gaze. " My employer," she answered. " Mac, it's lovely to see you. When did you arrive in England?" "Two days ago," the man replied lazily. " I went straight over to the Manse, of course. Old Mealin gave me this address." Charity turned to Kit. " I left your address with the caretaker. I wasn't quite sure of Raven's Rest; you don't mind, do you, Kit?" "Not at all, my dear," the older woman assured her. " I found this young man on my doorstep...." "Hasn't he introduced himself yet?" Charity threw a laughing glance at Mac. " He always had atrocious manners, Kit, Timothy, this is Alexander Wallace Duncan Macturnan, known for obvious reasons as Mac. Mac, this is Kit Harcombe—and Timothy Danes: two very good friends of mine." Mac grinned how do you do, before advancing wrathfully on the girl. "How many times in the past have I asked you to keep my dreadful name locked in your brr-east, woman?" Charity smiled up at him affectionately. " Mac, you haven't lost your Scottish accent. Oh, Mac, I'm so glad to see you again! I've missed you a lot." Mac put his arm round the girl and squeezed her shoulders. "That goes for me, too. Look, honey, your friend Danes here was about to take me down to the local inn to get fixed up with a room there. I'm staying down here to be near you for a while. He says he knows the landlord quite well, so if you stay right where you are, honey, I'll soon be back again. That's if it's all right with you, Miss Harcombe," he said to Kit.

"For heaven's sake, boy, call me Kit," that good lady replied energetically. "Everyone else does. Yes, of course it's all right. Come back to supper. You, too, Timothy." "Sorry, Kit," the young doctor answered stiffly, " I'm afraid I can't. You ready, Macturnan?" Timothy stalked to the gate. "Good night, Timothy," Charity called in a surprised voice. The young doctor barely stopped to fling her a curt "Good night" over his shoulder. "What's wrong with everybody to-night?" Charity turned to Kit blankly. Kit shrugged her shoulders. " Pure, unadulterated masculine jealousy," she said, leading the way into the house. " You don't know very much about men, do you, Charity?" "Charity shook her head. " No, I suppose I don't," she answered slowly. " I've never been in contact with many of them, except of course Joddy—and Mac." Kit waved her to a chair. " Just who is this young man?" "Mac?" Charity smiled. "Actually, he's no relation, although he's always seemed like a brother to me. His father was Joddy's greatest friend. He and his mother were killed in an air crash when Mac was eleven, and Joddy brought him home to live with us. Mac did very well and went to university. I suppose I just assumed that you knew all about Mac as part of the family. But then he's been in South Africa during the past five years, working for an engineering degree. He's only been home on leave twice during that time. I suppose it just so happens that we never mentioned him for some reason or other during your visits."

"I don't remember hearing his name," Kit admitted. She shot a shrewd glance at Charity. " Are you in love with him? I mean, is there an understanding or anything between you?" Charity pealed with laughter. " Heavens, no, Kit; I look on Mac as a brother. I'm very fond of him, of course, as he is of me. Anyway, he's practically engaged to a girl in Durban. He brought her over to England to see us on his last leave. She's a very nice girl. Only," Charity added with a rueful little smile, " Mac's chockful of strong Scottish pride; he won't even think of marrying Jan until he's taken his degrees and can support a wife. But I still can't think why Mac's arrival should send Timothy—and Marcus "—the girl hesitated a little over his name—" off in a huff like that." Kit lit a cigarette. " Timothy, my dear," she said, dryly, " is, or thinks he is, head over heels in love with you. Naturally, when he sees another man kissing you he's jealous. Marcus now -" Kit murmured, lazily blowing smoke rings, " we-ll, I'd hesitate to predict just what upset that young man." Charity twisted her fingers together. "Kit," she said miserably, " Marcus is so strange. I just don't understand him." "In what way do you mean—strange?" Kit asked keenly. "Well, just as I think I'm getting to know him, just as he begins to reveal himself as a—as a man with deep hidden feelings and emotions, it's—it's as though he slams a door in my face. A door," Charity said, in a low-pitched voice, " that I can batter against in vain; it would still remain closed, unless he chose to open it." Kit removed her cigarette from her mouth. " Look, my dear. Marcus is like a child, that, having burnt his hand in the lire, fears to approach the flame again. He's been badly hurt in the past, and

he's wary of history repeating itself. Marcus has a proud nature. He's bitter, and only time itself, or a miracle, can heal his wounds." Kit's unusually serious words kept going through the girl's mind all the evening. Although she laughed and responded to Mac's chaffing and spoke freely about old times and reminiscences, Charity was glad to get back in her quiet, cool bedroom, to examine her memories of the day that was past. She leaned her head dreamily against the window- pane. " You're sweet, Charity ... truly woman. .". . You're different from other women. . . . Leave your hair down; I like it that way. , . . Say it. . . say my name. . . . Only time itself... or a miracle . . . can heal his wounds. . . ."

CHAPTER SIX DAVID FAIRFORD was absorbed in his book; utterly absorbed, to the exclusion of everything around him. The minister was seated at his desk. He had gone into his study ostensibly to begin his sermon, but he had picked up this book to look at the cover, and— well, that had been that. The study was a pleasant place, but everything was in wildest confusion, especially the desk. Janet Fairford often moaned about the state of the room; but her husband, usually good-temperedly acquiescent in most things, firmly refused to have his study touched. The most he allowed her to do was a spot of dusting. David said in the present state of disorder he knew just where everything was. His wife opened the study door quietly. Janet stood on the threshold and surveyed David with exasperated affection. "David, I thought you were supposed to be writing your sermon." David Fairford laid down his book with a guilty air. " So I am, darling, only -" "Only you picked up a book and promptly forgot everything else," Janet finished dryly. " That cover looks familiar. What on earth are you reading, David? Not my library book! " She burst into gentle mocking laughter. " And you sit there reading Death in the Parlour, after lecturing me on my low taste in literature." David looked sheepishly defiant. "The cover caught my eye." He hastily changed the subject. " Did you want me for anything in particular, dear?"

Janet laid her soft cheek against his. " No, darling; I just came in for a spot of moral support before I get ready to cope with the Fete committee." "Is it this afternoon, your meeting?" "Yes," Janet answered, grimacing. " In the garden. A lovely day like this, and I waste it coping tactfully with old tabbies." "Janet!" her husband said in the half-hearted tone of voice of one who knew it to be his duty to protest. His wife pulled a wry face. " Well, so they are, David. I'm not sure I'm not maligning the poor cats, either. I shall need all my reserves of tact this afternoon, too. I'm going to propose that Charity Tremayne should be asked to take charge of the flower stall." David removed his glasses. " Well, what's wrong with that?" he asked mildly. Janet regarded her husband with exasperated affection. " Because, my dear, blind idiot, Charity Tremayne is very much in the bad books of your dear ladies." "But why?" the vicar protested. " She seems an extremely nice, sensible young woman to me." "She is," his wife said tersely. "Then why -" "First and foremost," Janet ticked her fingers, " she is employed by and living in the same house as that notorious libertine, Marcus Baron, quote Miss Agg; two, she has been asked to join the ladies' sewing circle and has refused; three, she is pretty; four, re your

Miss Braithwaite; apparently she is lacking in the deportment, manners and respect for her elders one expects to find in a clergyman's daughter (I wonder, by the way, what Miss Braithwaite thinks of Joan and Mary); five, she uses makeup; and sixth and lastly, a mysterious young man has appeared on the scene, who is apparently no relation, and moreover behaves towards Charity with unwarrantable licence; again quote Miss Agg." Janet's husband was not a little perturbed. " But, my dear, do you mean- -" "I mean," his wife said firmly, " one or two of your lady parishioners cordially dislike the girl for reasons best known to themselves. I wonder they haven't come to the 'dear vicar ' with their complaints before now." Janet rose. " Anyway, I like Charity Tremayne very much, and I'm determined to see that she has that stall. Not that I've asked her yet—she's coming to tea to-day, by the way. I wonder what will happen if she meets up with the Misses Agg and Townsend in our garden." The vicar swivelled round in his chair in some agitation. " Janet—" he began. His wife dropped a kiss on the top of his head. " Don't you worry, darling. I'll take care of everything. I shall be exceedingly tactful and as wise as the proverbial owl. You get on with your sermon." David Fairford opened his mouth to say something else, but the door had already closed behind his wife. The St. Mary's Charity Fete committee arrived punctual to the minute; the Misses Agg and Town- send, followed by Miss Braithwaite, Miss Dakers, and one or two satellite members of the committee.

"Dear Mrs. Fairford," Harriet Agg gushed, "you're looking quite tired; you've been overdoing things. Now, you mustn't overtire yourself with running the Fete. You can leave everything safely to us." Janet almost snorted. " Oh, can I! " she muttered under her breath. "I'm quite well," she said aloud crisply, " and perfectly capable of coping with the Fete. I've set the chairs out here under the trees," she said, leading the way into the garden." I thought it would be cooler on such a hot day." They got through most of the details that always crop up when something has to be organised unusually quickly. Janet was absolutely astonished. Usually in these committee meetings small points were debated almost with heat; but to-day details were settled quite amicably. The Fete was to be held in Major Mason's grounds. Lady Rill had graciously consented to open it. "We think little Mary should present the bouquet," Miss Townsend said gushingly. " She's so like the dear vicar." Janet stifled a groan; she remembered the fuss there had been last year when her daughter had been told that she was going to present the flowers. " I don't think Mary will want to do it this year," she said doubtfully. "Oh, but you must see that she does," Miss Dakers said. Janet looked at-her. " I'm sorry, but I'm not in the habit of forcing my children into the limelight when they prefer to remain out of it. In any case, Mary has just had a brace put on her teeth; at the moment she looks a perfectly hideous specimen of childhood," Mary's mother said bluntly.

There was silence for a moment. " Well, perhaps we could leave that for the present," Janet went on, " and proceed with the next thing on the agenda." Janet Fairford metaphorically held her breath when they came to the last item—stallholders! She mentally girded up her loins and plunged into the silence before the other ladies spoke. "I want to propose that Miss Tremayne should have charge of the flower stall," she said boldly. The startled silence that followed this bombshell was profound. Janet could see Miss Braithwaite opening her mouth to speak, so she hurriedly forestalled her. " Charity Tremayne is an extremely nice girl. Both my husband and I like her very much." Unseen, Janet crossed her fingers. " Mr. Fairford thought it would be a kind Christian thing to do, to ask Miss Tremayne to take part in the Fete," she said diplomatically, " make her feel at home in our church— the stranger within our gates, that sort of thing, you know." She watched their faces as they digested this. "If it's Mr. Fairford's wish, then I'm sure we'll all agree to the appointment," said Mrs. Mundy, a thin, faded little woman, who hadn't opened her mouth until now. "Oh yes; yes, it is," Janet assured her hurriedly. She met Miss Agg's disbelieving stare defiantly. "Forgive me, God, for telling a white he," she breathed. " And while we're on the subject," she said ingratiatingly, " I think it would be a good idea to ask Mr. Baron if Diane would present the bouquet to Lady Rill. She's a sweet, pretty little girl, and it might induce Mr. Baron to give us a generous donation towards the Fete."

Miss Agg's bosom swelled. " That I most certainly will never agree to," she said majestically. "Why not?" Janet asked bluntly. "I do not wish to have anything to do with such a hardened and brazen sinner," declared that good lady, " and I strongly recommend this committee should not do so either." "Christ sat down and dined with hardened sinners," Janet pointed out gently. " Besides, it's hardly fair to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children." The committee seemed to have reached a deadlock. Janet was determined to stand her ground. Harriet Agg and Winnie Townsend were equally determined not to give way. "The only way to settle this matter is to take a vote on it," Mrs. Mundy pointed out reasonably. "I agree," Janet said. "Then I would like to propose that Mr. Baron be asked, Mrs. Chairman," Mrs. Mundy said. "Those in favour please signify in the usual manner," Janet asked. She counted three hands, four with her own. "Those against." Miss Agg, Miss Townsend and Miss Braithwaite raised their right hands. "I'm afraid you are in the minority, ladies," the vicar's wife said pleasantly, " so the motion is carried."

"I see that my advice and long experience in church work are not wanted," Harriet Agg said coldly. " Come, Winnie. Good afternoon, ladies." She swept her friend across the garden. Miss Braithwaite sat undecided for a moment before she decided to follow suit. Mrs. Mundy leaned across and patted Janet's hand. "Don't worry, my dear. They'll get over this. Everything will work out for the best. You often get these little upsets even in a church, human nature being what it is." Janet Fairford smiled at the little woman gratefully. She was agreeably surprised to find an unexpected ally in one whom hitherto she'd regarded as a nonentity. Mrs. Mundy started to collect her belongings. "Won't you stay and have a cup of tea?" Janet asked. ' "Thank you, but no. I've got rather a lot to do at home this afternoon." Janet glanced round at the rest of the committee. " Well, I think we've covered all the items on the agenda, so I'll declare the meeting closed." **** Charity was surprised to find the vicar's wife sitting in a deck chair, her hands folded in her lap. It was strange to see Janet Fairford doing nothing; she was usually busily sewing or mending. "I let myself in through the garden gate, Janet," she said. " You told me to come straight through."

Janet looked up with a smile. " OK, dear Charity, I didn't notice you coming across the lawn. Where's Diane?" "She's gone down to your orchard," Charity replied. " Joan called her to go and play with them in their tent." "Yes, they've got one of my old sheets rigged up. She'll be all right with my daughters, won't she?" "Oh yes." Charity sat down beside the vicar's wife. " She's quite happy playing with them now she's got used to them." The two women smiled at each other. They were becoming fast friends—a friendship based on mutual backgrounds and a liking for humour. This was not Charity's first visit to the Vicarage. She and Diane often came over. "It seems strange to see you idle, Janet," Charity commented. "I know. I've got heaps of mending to do, but I'm just recovering from the committee meeting." Charity smiled sympathetically. " Were they very trying?" Janet pulled a wry face. " No worse than usual, I suppose. I'll get my work-basket, and then I can sew while we talk. ..." Charity leaned across and took hold of a pair of the vicar's socks. " Let me help you." Janet protested half-heartedly, " No, Charity, I don't want to make use of you when you come to see me."

"But really I should like to do them. I like darning. In fact I was going to ask you if I could take some of David's socks back to Raven's Rest. It would help relieve you, and it would give me something to do in my spare time." Janet glanced across at her. " Do you still like working for Marcus Baron?" "Yes, of course," the girl replied composedly, but there was a hint of reserve in her manner. Janet threaded her needle, a slight frown on her face. She glanced at her companion, serenely darning. Charity was a friendly person; she was easy to know and to like; but that little air of personal dignity kept her new-found friend from asking too personal questions. The vicar's wife was rather at a loss how to frame her requests. "Charity," she said hesitantly, " there are two things I want to ask you." The girl looked up inquiringly. "First, would you take charge of the flower stall at the Fete on Thursday?" "But, Janet," Charity protested, " I'm a stranger here; surely you have helpers who are far more qualified than I to take charge of a stall?" Her friend's mouth set firmly. " I want you to; partly because I think you will make the stall a success—you have a way with arranging flowers— and partly because -" The vicar's wife stopped abruptly.

"I think I know what you were about to say," Charity said quietly. "Do you?" "You think that by asking me to take part in this Fete you'll openly show that both you and the vicar are friends of mine, and that you don't care two hoots for the gossip that's going round Little Marth." Janet Fairford coloured. " Well, perhaps something like that was at the back of my mind; but we do want you to take part in the Fete. Will you?" Charity gazed back at her friend. " When you put it like that, I can scarcely refuse, can I? If you really want me to, then I will." The girl stopped in her darning. An amused little smile tugged at the corners of her pretty mouth. " Tell me, Janet," she begged, " just what -were the comments of the committee when you brought up this question?" Mrs. Fairford grimaced. " I think they can be best left to your imagination, my dear; there weren't as many objections as there might have been, though, because I took their breath away by another suggestion." "What was that?" the girl asked curiously. There was a slight pause before her friend answered. "I want you to ask Marcus Baron if he will let Diane present the bouquet to Lady Rill on Thursday." Charity Tremayne's head shot up; she stared at Janet in amazement.

"But why Diane? What about Sally or Mary, or any of the other children in the church?" Janet shrugged her shoulders. " My dear, I love my children, but I hope I'm not one of those silly doting mothers who see no fault in their offspring. Sally's at the gawky stage, all arms and legs; she'd regard giving flowers to anyone as ' soppy', anyway; I had an awful job to get Mary to do it last year. I had to resort to bribery in the end. And then she fell up the steps and nearly knocked the woman over. It's an odd thing," Janet said resignedly. " When one wants one's children to be at their best, they invariably behave as badly as they can." She picked up a pair of cotton knickers and regarded them frowningly. "And I think Diane will- present the bouquet beautifully; she's sweet and pretty as a picture. What do you say?" "I don't know what to say," Charity replied hesitantly. " I personally would like to see Diane tripping up to the platform; with a little coaching she would do it very well; but it's Marcus—I mean Mr. Baron," she hastily corrected. " I don't think he would agree. You see," Charity said apologetically, " I'm afraid be hasn't a very good opinion of the church and congregation. Although he hasn't raised any objections to my taking the child to church, he might look at the Fete in a different light," and she regarded Janet in a troubled fashion. Her friend leaned across and patted Charity's knee. "Well, anyway, you ask him to-night, and ring me back in the morning. He can only say no; and I can cast around for someone else. .He might say yes, and he might"—Janet twinkled—" give us a donation towards the Fete. Just look at these knickers," she went on. " Mary's got to the stage where she sits down on her seat and slides everywhere."

The afternoon passed, with Janet chatting nineteen to the dozen, and Charity listening quietly, putting an apt comment in here and there. She was genuinely fond of the vicar's wife; Janet was strangely unlike the usual conception of a clergyman's spouse. She had a lively tongue and a broad sense of humour. She was devoted to her husband and two children, although she tried to hide it by alluding to them with amused tolerance. Janet put down her sewing. " Well, that's finished all the patching. I'll get tea now. Would you collect the kids, Charity? I expect they'll need their hands washed if nothing more." Charity stood at the gate and cooeed. The three children came running, Diane in the centre of the other two, holding their hands. After the first initial shyness had worn off, Diane had got on like a house on fire with the minister's children. She loved going down to the " vic'rage " to tea. And the cheerful, gregarious Sally and Mary Fairford were good for the shy child. She was fast losing her shyness and timidity. Diane ran and caught hold of her governess's hand. "Charity, we've been playing cowboys and Indians; and my name is Moonbeam; and I'm Sally's—I mean Black Eagle's scaw." "Squaw, silly," Sally corrected austerely. Charity shepherded them off to the bathroom. " Mind you wash your hands properly: at the present moment you all look as though you should be named 'Black' something or other! And don't take all day, or we shall eat all the raspberries before you come down." Charity contentedly sipped her third cup of tea. It was very pleasant in the rambling Vicarage garden, idly talking to Janet. She shaded her eyes with her hand, for the sunshine lay warmly across

the old house. " You've got a fine show of wistaria this year, Janet." "Yes," her friend agreed, " and we should have a fine show of asters. I've set over a hundred plants." Charity looked at her friend with respect. " I don't know how you find the time and patience to cope with everything—the house, the children, the garden, besides looking after David. I know what it's like," she said feelingly, " keeping an absent- minded minister up to scratch." Janet laughed: she stretched out farther in her deck chair, enjoying these few idle moments. " Oh, I manage. Old Britcher gives me a hand with the garden "—her voice softened—" and I wouldn't have David any different. I love him just as he is." A sharp stab of envy pierced Charity. She resolutely ignored it. " By the way, isn't David coming to have any tea?" "I've taken it into the study. He's absolutely absorbed in his sermon. I expect he'll let it stand and get cold." Janet stared at her friend, an unusually troubled look on her placid, good-natured face. " Charity," she said slowly, " don't think I'm prying or interfering, but there's rather a lot of gossip circulating in the village that I think you should know about." Charity smiled serenely. " Dear Janet, don't let it worry you. I don't know just what people are saying, although I can guess. But it doesn't worry me in the slightest," she said composedly, " so long as the people that I like and care for believe in me "—she shrugged her shoulders. ... "But I don't like to hear such exaggerated tales," Janet fumed.

Charity stretched out her hand. " Dear, it's nice of you to bother about my reputation, but really there's no need; my conscience is quite clear." She smiled. " Come on, then, out with this silly gossip. I know you want to ease your mind; I suppose most of it's about Mac?" "Well, yes," Janet admitted reluctantly, " and no. I've only heard a garbled version, because I jolly soon shut the informant up. The current tale is that there must be more than friendship between you, or he wouldn't buy your clothes." Charity sat up abruptly. " I know where that particular tale has its source," she said. " Janet, Mac and I. . . . We were practically brought up together — in fact I've always thought of Mac as my brother, because my father brought him home to live with us after his parents, Joddy's best friends, were killed. I've always looked upon him as my brother. I'm fond of him, and he's fond of me. Mac's been abroad for five years; I'm the only family he has left. Surely it's only natural that he should come down and be near me." The girl's young voice faltered a little. " Especially since Joddy went; Mac's terribly cut up because he didn't reach England before he died." Janet reached across and patted her hand. " Of course, of course," she said soothingly. " You don't have to explain anything to me, you know, my dear." Charity's nose crinkled in a sudden grin. " But I must tell you about the dress affair. You know the Hunt ball is being held in three weeks' time at Major Griffith's house. Kit brought it up the other evening, and Mac promptly said he'd take me. We haven't danced together for such a long time. I said I couldn't go. I hadn't an evening dress. So Mac said if that was the only obstacle, we were as good as there. The next day, in my off-duty time, he

insisted on driving me into Sedchester to buy an evening dress. He said it could be his Christmas present, because he'd be back in Africa when Christmas did arrive." "Which shop did you go to?" Janet asked with deep feminine interest. "William Jones," was the answer. "Oh yes, that's the best fashion store in this part of the county— sorry to interrupt, dear, go on with your story." "Well, there was a fashion parade taking place in the gown department when we arrived, so Mac and I sat on two chairs well at the back of the room and watched. Oh, Janet, there were some heavenly gowns shown. I finally decided on a cream jersey. When I came out of the fitting-room to show myself to Mac, he promptly wrote out the cheque there and then. And just behind him sat Sheila Martin. She looked at my dress and she looked at Mac's cheque-book with a nasty little smile. Unfortunately, he chose that moment to act the fool, as he often does. He handed me the cheque and frowned heavily, and said,' There you are, woman; but don't ask me for any more clothes this quarter. You've already overdrawn your allowance.' " Janet broke into helpless giggles. " Charity, how priceless!" "I know," the girl agreed. " That's what I did, dissolved into laughter. Of course, Sheila swept away thinking the worst, and it doesn't look as though she's kept her thoughts to herself." "Did she speak to you?" Janet asked curiously. "No," Charity said, with a twinkle in her eye. "At least, not directly; she tossed a remark to her companion—something about

Jones used to be a select store where one could be sure of not meeting factory girls or typists on their afternoons off." "The nasty little snob," Mrs. Fairford interjected fiercely. "I didn't mind," Charity said, with a little shrug. " Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. I was glad Mac didn't hear her say it, though." **** Twisting before the mirror on the day of the Charity Fete, she had to admit that the costume did suit her exceedingly well; it might even have been designed for her own particular style. The gown was made in grey alpaca, long, full-skirted, with a deep Puritan collar and cuffs in crisp white pique. The bonnet was grey; a little frill of white edged the brim, with grey ribbons to tie under the chin. The snug bodice hugged Charity's young bosom above the softly falling folds of her gown. On an impulse she ran lightly down the stairs and snipped a pink rose from the bush growing by the kitchen door. She twisted it in her hair so that it just peeped from under the brim of the bonnet. Charity caught the look of ardent admiration in Timothy Danes' eyes. The doctor was one of her first customers. He leaned across the stall towards her. " Charity," he said hoarsely, " you look lovely surrounded by those flowers, like a dainty flower yourself, so fresh and sweet." Charity curtseyed demurely. She feigned a blush and cast down her eyes. " Fie, sir, I vow you overwhelm my maidenly modesty. But what are you doing here, Timothy?" the girl went on lightly. "I thought you were a very busy doctor."

"I've only dropped in for a moment to see you before I finish my rounds," "Then you must buy a buttonhole from the stall while you're here," she said roguishly. "Very well. Which shall I choose?" Charity held up a dainty yellow rosebud framed in maidenhair fern. " What about this?" "Will you fix it for me?" Tim asked. The girl was very conscious of his eyes on her face as she reached up and set the rose in his buttonhole, securing it at the back with a pin. Timothy caught her hand tightly in his. " Charity, will you have supper with me to-night, after the Fete is over? I want to apologise for my boorish behaviour the other evening." She gently tried to withdraw her hand, and gazed at the doctor dubiously. She didn't really want to go with him, and yet she couldn't think of a valid excuse for refusing without hurting Timothy's feelings. After Diane went to bed the evenings were her own, to do with as she pleased. Timothy knew that. Charity smiled. " All right, Timothy, I should like to have supper with you." He reluctantly released her hand. " I'll pick you up here at seven o'clock, then."

Watching Timothy thread his way through the crowd, she didn't notice her employer's tall figure near her stall until his voice made her jump. "Dreaming, Charity?" The hot colour flooded the girl's cheeks. Marcus always seemed to appear and catch her at a disadvantage. He leaned negligently against the uprights of the stall, sardonically enjoying her discomfiture. "You look very charming in your old-world outfit, Mistress Charity." Charity bit her lip. Marcus was laughing at her again. She shot him a glance from under her lashes. He was selecting a buttonhole with deliberate care. "Rose, no; carnation, no; sweet pea, no." His fingers hovered over a deep mauve pansy. "This one, I think; I have a particular weakness for the colour; and the meaning of its name ' honesty.' " His rapier-keen glance flashed up to her face. Charity veiled her eyes. "Isn't it part of the service to fix the buttonhole?" Marcus inquired. In silence, Charity took the flower-spray and the pin. To secure it she had to slip her hand inside his shirt so that it came in contact with his warm, tanned flesh. The girl took her hand away as if she had been stung. Marcus laughed, although his own breathing quickened. His grey eyes raked her face. " Mistress Prude," he mocked. Flaming colour rose to Charity's face; she bit her lip.

Marcus took the girl's hand. " Pax," he said placatingly. " I don't mean to bait you," he added in a curiously rough voice, " but that sedate touch- me-not little air of yours maddens me at times. I want to smash down that serene composure and make you come alive." He swung her hand to and fro. " Anyway," he continued in a lighter tone, " let's call an armed truce and come out with me tonight." Genuine disappointment rang in the girl's cry, " Marcus, I—I can't. Timothy's asked me to have supper with him to-night." It was as though a shutter descended over the man's face, wiping out his half-teasing, curiously tender expression, and leaving it blank and smooth. He dropped her hand. " Our worthy young doctor is in favour again, it seems," he sneered. Charity gazed at the young farmer beseechingly. "Far be it from me to interfere with your plans," Marcus said roughly. He flung down a coin and strode off, elbowing his way through the crowd without looking back. Tears rose hotly to the girl's eyes, and a lump came into her throat. She gazed after the man mistily. "Marcus, please don't be angry with me again," she whispered desolately. The day had started so happily, too. Charity had approached her employer rather nervously with Janet's suggestion. She had hardly seen anything of Marcus since the picnic, not even at meal-times. The young farmer was extremely busy working along with his men in the harvest fields, snatching his meals at odd times. Marcus had

listened gravely to the suggestion. He had actually agreed right away; he had even suggested taking them to the Fete in the car and perhaps taking the afternoon off himself. Apparently the combine had broken down and they were waiting for the missing part to arrive. So Marcus said he could spare one afternoon. There had been fierce pride in Charity's heart, watching Diane make her baby way across the platform. The child presented the bouquet gravely, making her sedate little cursey, as Charity had shown her. Lady Rill stooped impulsively and kissed the little girl. There was a chorus of delighted admiration from the crowd, " Isn't she sweet?" Charity felt faintly alarmed at the fierce surge of almost maternal pride that filled her breast. After all, Diane wasn't her child. A feeling of panic possessed the girl. " I don't think I could bear to go away and leave her," she thought wretchedly. Resolutely, she thrust her panic-stricken thoughts away. She was too busy after the opening to spare the time for thinking, anyway. Old Mrs. Robinson's gnarled fingers had fashioned the daintiest flowersprays and buttonholes. They sold like hot cakes. Charity had been both happy and busy. And now a cloud had come between her and the sunshine of the day. Her head began to ache dully, and her heart, too. Marcus was angry with her, and she couldn't bear it. Charity took one or two steps with a vague idea of going after him. Janet, coming up, was alarmed at the girl's white, miserable little face. "Don't you feel well, Charity?" she asked. The girl steadied herself. " I'm all right; my head aches a little—it's the heat, I expect." "Slip over to the marquee and get a cup of tea,"

Janet urged. " You've been on the go for some time now. I'll keep an eye on the stall. You've practically sold out, anyway. A strong cup of tea will ease your head." "But not your heart, eh, Miss Tremayne?" Both Charity and Janet turned sharply. Sheila Martin smiled nastily. " My dear innocent," she drawled mockingly, " it's perfectly apparent you've fallen for your employer rather heavily. Take my tip and stick to Timothy Danes, or your other— gentleman friend. Marcus is way out of your class! " Janet took an impulsive step after the tall, drifting, willowy figure, clad impeccably in tailored pink linen. Charity caught her arm. " Don't," she said quickly. " Let it pass." "I'd like to wring that woman's neck!" Janet declared wrathfully. Charity smiled wanly at her angry friend. "It doesn't matter about the tea, Janet." The girl glanced at her watch quietly, ignoring the subject of Sheila Martin. " As you see, my stall is practically sold out. Timothy is picking me up in an hour's time and taking me out to supper." "All the same," Janet insisted, " you do as you're told, young woman, and go across and get that cup of tea now, and take this couple of aspirins." The babel of conversation in the huge marquee struck on Charity's ears like a physical blow. She could scarcely see in the cool dimness after the bright sunshine in the grounds outside. The girl

managed to secure a cup of tea; she stood with it in her hand, looking around for a spare seat. Kit hailed her. " Hey, Charity, come over here and share my table." Charity sank down thankfully on a packing-case. "Tired?" Kit commented. " My dear, I don't wonder. I don't think I've ever seen such a crowd at one of these do's before. I've been selling tickets for a cake. You know, guess its weight or nearest to its weight, and you win it. I don't think," she said earnestly, " that I ever want to look at a cake again. All that pink-and-white icing. And heavy! Ugh! The darn thing weighed a ton, too. Old Harry Baker won it. I should think if he ever gets around to eating it he'll take to his bed for a week." Charity smiled abstractedly. She was idly stirring the tea round and round. Kit eyed her shrewdly. "I bumped into Marcus just now; well— bumped—he nearly knocked me down. He was striding along with a face like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. I asked him if anything was wrong and got my head bitten off for my pains. I suppose," she added dryly, " he wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you've practically stirred the bottom out of that cup?" Charity flushed a deep crimson. " Of course not." Her head went up proudly. " Why should any behaviour on the part of Marcus Baron upset me?" "My dear child," Kit pointed out firmly, " I'm as capable of adding two and two together as the next woman. When I see Marcus striding away from the direction of your stall with a face like a thundercloud, and then I find you looking as miserable as sin; well -" Kit shrugged her shoulders eloquently.

Charity was glad to escape from Kit's sharp eyes to the doubtful sanctuary of the ladies' cloakroom, where she could wash her face and hands. She gratefully laved the cold water on her hot face and burning eyes, powdered her face and lightly lip-sticked her mobile mouth. She deftly smoothed her brown braids and adjusted the grey bonnet. There were several women in the cloakroom renewing their make-up. Conscious of the stares and furtive whisperings, with her small head held high, the girl made her way out into the lovely grounds, back to her stall. The aspirins she had taken with the tea had eased her head wonderfully; she determined to ignore the pain in her heart. Janet was counting the takings; the stall was absolutely cleared. The vicar's wife was jubilant. " You've done far better than I hoped for, Charity. How's the head?" She inspected the girl critically. " You look a little more refreshed, but you're still very pale." "I seldom have any colour," Charity answered quietly. " I feel all right. It was the heat, I expect." When Timothy came for her, she turned in relief to him, away from her friend's loving, critical gaze. "We've made thirty pounds to-day, Timothy," Janet said. "Jolly good show!" the doctor exclaimed; he grinned engagingly. " But then look who was in charge of the stall! Are you ready to go, Charity?" "Oh, but you aren't leaving yet, are you?" Janet exclaimed in some dismay. " There's dancing on the lawn to come, and then Mr. Sarby is giving a display of fireworks." Timothy looked inquiringly at Charity. " Shall we stay?"

"I'd much rather not." The girl looked appealingly at Janet. " You don't mind if I leave, do you?" "No, of course not," Mrs. Fairford returned warmly. She gave the girl's hand a little pat. " I'd forgotten you weren't feeling too good. You won't want to jig about dancing or listen to fireworks going off in your ear. You go, my dear, and have a nice time." "I'll come in and see you to-morrow," Charity promised. Timothy seemed in high spirits. He whistled gaily as they drove along the narrow country roads. " You haven't asked me where we're going." Charity had taken off her bonnet; she rested her head wearily against the cool upholstery of the seat. "Haven't I?" "No, and you haven't even commented on this decent car instead of Ole Faithful." "Where are we going and where is Ole Faithful?" she complied obediently. "Well, we are on our way to eat our supper," he said. " At the Smuggler's Rest. It's a three-centuries- old smuggler's house that's been turned into ah inn. Secondly, I thought we might as well do the evening in style, so I hired this Bentley from the garage in the village." The young doctor grinned at her boyishly. " I wanted everything about to-night to be perfect, including these," and he produced from the dashboard of the car a square cellophane box, tied up with white satin ribbon.

"Oh, Timothy! " the girl exclaimed. She lifted out a spray of gardenias, perfect in their whiteness against the background of glossy green leaves. She gently laid her face against the smooth, sweet- scented petals. " Thank you, Timothy," she said shyly. Charity was touched. Dear Timothy! He was so nice and easy to be with. A warm glow at her heart assuaged a little of the pain there. Timothy glanced at the flowers held near her soft cheek. There was a flame at the back of his eyes, although he spoke lightly enough. " Think nothing of it; it's just part of the Danes' service. We aim to please, madame." His companion was enchanted with the Smuggler's Rest. It was very old, low roofed, with small, mullioned windows. There were two rooms up and two down; but they were divided into several little cubby holes, with high oak-backed settles, and oaken tables. The fireplace in one room was enormous: large enough to allow several people to sit inside in comfort. Over the fireplace hung several ancient weapons: a sword, an axe, a blunderbuss, and two old lanterns. All round the walls were specimens of plate, pewter and copper tankards, Toby jugs. Charity drew a deep breath. " Timothy, this place is utterly charming. I never knew such places existed." "I expect it was a little different in his day,". Timothy said. He nodded to the wall behind the girl. Charity turned. The portrait of a man hung just above her head; a most unusual portrait, for it was done in pieces of coloured glass, like a stained-glass window in a church. It was just the head and shoulders of a man. He wore a scarlet woollen cap . that hung

down over one shoulder with a tassel. He was garbed in a blue woollen jersey, but it was the face that held Charity's fascinated attention. Tanned and lean, with high cheekbones, and a cruel, albeit passionate mouth, with heavy-lidded, deceptively sleepy, grey eyes. "Timothy, who was he?" the girl asked fearfully. Danes settled himself more comfortably at the table. " He lived here in 1607. This was his house. His name was Richard Barrington; but he was commonly called Richard the Wrecker, because he was the biggest smuggler in these parts. He had a gang forty strong." Charity, gazing at that hard mouth, shivered. " He looks cruel -" "He was certainly a tough nut, from all accounts," her companion agreed. " According to the legend he had a beautiful young wife. One night he came home from plundering a wreck on the rocks—a dark, stormy night it was—to find her, as he thought, entertaining another man. He drove his wife out into the wild night with dreadful curses ringing in her ears. When he drew his sword to deal with the' man,' he discovered that the supposed ' lover' was his wife's sister, dressed up in men's clothes for a girlish trick. She'd ridden over to surprise her sister, and the storm had prevented her getting back. His wife's body was found at the foot of the cliffs the next morning. Richard Barrington hanged himself, so the story goes, from a beam in one of these downstairs rooms. They say that the ghost of his wife can be seen on a moonlight night, wringing her hands and still pleading with her husband to listen to her explanation and understand." Charity shivered; her fascinated gaze fixed on the dark, haughty, still face of the man in the portrait.

"I wonder," she murmured, " if his wrath would be dark and stormy like that." "Whose?" Timothy inquired curiously. " My dear girl, you're gazing at that picture as though you can't tear your eyes away. Had you heard the story of Richard Barrington before?" Charity reluctantly turned away from the wall behind her. " No; it's just that—that face—reminds me of someone," she said in a low voice. Timothy laid his warm hand on her cold one. " Is anything wrong? Do you feel all right? Janet said something about your feeling rotten. You look rather pale. Did my story upset you?" He held his fingers on her pulse. Charity avoided his anxious gaze. " No, there's nothing wrong. I had a slight headache—the heat, I suppose—but it's almost gone now." She nervously removed her hand. " Timothy, you're not to treat me as a patient." "What you need is a good rest, I expect," her companion said firmly. " You women are all the same," he grumbled jocularly. " Now confess, I bet you've had hardly any breakfast or lunch, tearing off to the Fete, and nothing to eat since." "Well -" Charity began lamely. "Well," Timothy mocked tenderly. "I thought so. I'm going to prescribed something for you, young woman. First, thick, delicious soup, then chicken and mushroom omelette with creamed potatoes and carrots, followed by home-made raspberry tart and cream. Then, if you still feel a little hungry, Cheddar cheese and biscuits, and a large cup of coffee. How's that for a prescription?"

The girl laughed. " I shall endeavour to follow your instructions to the letter, doctor," she said demurely. By the time they had arrived at the cheese-and- biscuit stage the delicious meal had done much to ease the cold feeling of disaster Charity had been fighting ever since she had heard the story of Richard Barrington's wife. It was ridiculous to be upset by something that happened so long ago'. Charity resolutely kept her head turned to her companion, away from the wall behind. She concentrated on the young doctor's good-humoured raillery. She sipped her coffee slowly. It was good coffee— just how Charity liked it, hot, and milky. She looked across the table at her companion. "Thank you for bringing me here, Timothy, I have enjoyed it." The man eyed her with an enigmatical gleam at the back of his eyes. " Don't mention it, fair lady; the pleasure is all mine." He took out his pipe. " Do you mind, Charity?" "No, of course not." "You know," Timothy said, intent on the serious business of filling his pipe with tobacco, " I'm glad you don't smoke, Charity: I don't think that any man really likes to see a woman smoking. It detracts from her womanhood—makes her unfeminine." Charity sat with her chin in her hand. "What a masculine view!" she mocked gently. "Do men set such store by femininity, then?" "Yes," Timothy answered firmly. "I think femininity rates high with most men, among the qualities they desire in their woman.

The doctor laid down his pipe and leaned across the table. The twin flames dancing in his eyes held her. His face was so near her own that Charity could see the tiny little golden hairs bearding his skin. Startled, the girl drew back, hurriedly searching for something to say—something to break the tense silence that stretched between them. A voice broke into their absorption—a jovial male voice. A hand heartily clapped Timothy on the back. "By all that's holy! Cassy! " Dr. Danes hastily pushed back his chair and wrung the newcomer's hand. " Jim, where have you sprung from? What on earth are you doing here?" The newcomer appeared to have been dining wisely, but not too well. He closed one bright blue eye in a huge, portentous wink. " Just passing through, old boy; just passing through." He staggered slightly. The girl behind him clutched at his arm. " Steady, Jimmy," she murmured. "Mary!" Timothy said delightedly. "You're here as well. This is grand! " He turned to his companion of the evening. " Charity, allow me to introduce two very good friends of mine, Jim and Mary Garside: Jim, Mary, this is Charity Tremayne." Jimmy Garside seized Charity's hand. " What's a pretty girl like you doing with an old sobersides like Cassy?" Timothy laughed good-naturedly before Charity could frame a reply. " Still the same old Jimmy; sit down, both of you, and have a drink. Waiter, two more chairs."

"No, Timothy; I—I—it's—late: we'd better be going. Come on, Jimmy." Mr. Garside regarded his sister in pained "surprise. "Whist, woman! what's got into you? Here's old Cassy, whom we haven't seen for ages, and you want to be rushing right away. Besides, didn't you hear his offer of a drink?" He wagged a finger in his sister's face. " Never refuse the offer of a drink, my girl." "Sit down, Mary," the young doctor urged." Why, it must be six months since I last saw you." "We're still living at the same place, Timothy," the girl answered drily. She lifted candid eyes to his face. Timothy reddened. " Yes, well, I've been rather busy," he said lamely. " Well, what's it to be? What will you have, Jimmy?" "" I'll have a whisky-and-soda, old boy." "And you, Mary?" "A lime-juice, please." "Have something stronger, old girl," her brother urged. A gleam of humour lit the girl's face. " Don't forget I've got to take you home." "Yes, you do look as though you've been hitting the bottle somewhat," Dr. Danes commented candidly to his friend. " What's the idea? Celebrating?" Jimmy Garside leaned across the table." Come into some money, old boy," he said in a hoarse, confidential whisper. " An obscure

great-aunt of ours has just popped off and left Mary and me a cool thirty thousand pounds between us." Timothy whistled. " Phew! I wish I had a relative like that, but all my aunts died years ago." Charity was quietly studying the other girl under cover of. the conversation. She saw a mop of dark, curly hair framing a piquant little face, candid blue eyes, normally merry, but now quiet and controlled, their colour accentuated by the plain sapphire woollen dinner-gown the girl wore. And a tall, willowy, slender figure." She's in love with Timothy," Charity instinctively thought. She had noticed the unguarded joyous expression that sprang into Mary Garside's eyes when she first caught sight of the young doctor, to be wiped out by a distinct effort when the girl caught sight of Charity herself. " She looks nice," Charity thought—" the sort of girl of my own age I should like to have as a friend." She watched the slender, white fingers playing with some crumbs on the tablecloth. Suddenly, as though divining Charity's gaze, Mary Garside looked up, straight into Charity's frankly interested face. Her own closed up, coldly. Disconcerted, Charity plunged into speech. " Why do you call Timothy Cassy?" she asked Mary's brother. "In our student days he used to study so hard and at such length he often went without eating all day. The idiot got as thin as a lathe. Hence the nickname. You know, from Shakespeare," Jimmy nodded, seeing her bewildered look. "' Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look.' That certainly applied to Tim in those days." Charity laughed. " I don't think it applies now; he looks quite well nourished."

"Hey," Timothy protested indignantly, "when you've both finished discussing my waistline. Well, congratulations, old man, on your good fortune. What are you both going to do now? Retire?" He spoke to Jimmy, but he was looking at Mary. She refused to lift her lashes. "We're going to have a damn good holiday together first," Garside said. " Probably a sea cruise —see if I can put some colour in Mary's cheeks and some flesh on her bones." He leaned across the table and pinched his sister's cheek affectionately. The young doctor was studying the girl intently; for the moment he had evidently forgotten Charity. " Yes, you are quite a bit thinner and paler, Mary. What have you been doing? Working too hard?" The hot colour rose to the girl's face, then drained away, leaving her looking oddly fragile. "Yes, perhaps I have," she said in a low voice. She lifted her eyes to Timothy's face. "I want to go away," she said, suddenly passionate. " I want to get right away from England and from— everything." Both her brother and Timothy eyed her a little blankly. Mary rose. " Please, Jimmy, take me home. I'm feeling tired, and we've got quite a way to drive yet." Jimmy Garside hoisted himself up good-naturedly from the table. " All right, old girl. We're on our way to stay with some friends farther north," he explained to Timothy. "I'll see you before you go—if you do go away?" Danes asked Mary.

"I don't know—I don't know what our- plans are yet.... We haven't decided." She affected not to see his outstretched hand. " Good night, Timothy; good night, Miss Tremayne. I'm glad to have made your acquaintance." And Mary was away across the room. Her brother had to hurry his leave-taking to catch up with her slight figure. Timothy stared after them. " That was odd, seeing them here tonight." "Have you known them long?" Charity inquired. His abstracted gaze came back and rested on her face. " I should say I have! Jimmy and I were students at the same hospital at the same time that Mary was doing her nurse's training. They've got a house in London. I practically lived there at one time." "Mary looks—rather nice," Charity said tentatively. "She's one of the best," he said warmly; " and so is old Jimmy. Mary's a super nurse. I remember one night, when we were having dinner at a dive in Soho, the proprietor's wife was taken ill with her first baby. Mary helped me deliver the child. Gosh, she was marvellous—pool, level-headed. She looked fagged out to-night, though, I thought." "Of course she did, you blind idiot! " Charity protested silently. " Can't you see that Mary's in love with you? She's probably been eating out her heart, especially if she hasn't seen or heard from you for six months." Charity sighed exasperatedly. Men were so blind. Mary Garside would make an admirable wife for Timothy. Besides being in love with him, she shared the same back ground and enthusiasm for the

same work.. Mary could help him go far. With his wife's money behind him, Timothy would be able to take up his beloved research work again. Besides, it was fairly obvious that the young doctor was a little attracted to the other girl, even if he hadn't yet realised it himself. She looked at her wrist-watch. " I think we should be going, Timothy. I don't want to be too late back." "Very well. I'll pay the bill and then we can be on our way." It was a really lovely evening. A full harvest moon sailed serenely in the blue heavens. Charity felt drowsily content watching the play of the silver light as the hedges streamed past the car. She was roused out of her dreamy state by the cessation of motion. "What are we stopping for, Timothy?" "I thought you'd like to see the view from here," was his laconic reply. They were on the summit of the hill overlooking the farm. The moon picked out the roofs and chimneys of Raven's Rest and lingered in the tall beeches. Charity leaned forward in her seat." I wonder how the farm received its name?" she mused. "Ravens are supposed to have nested in the trees round the house at one time," Timothy said, he turned in his seat. " Charity, do you remember this spot?" he asked huskily. "Over there, you knelt with the bluebells in your arms, and I told you that I'd fallen in love with you."

"Timothy, please," The girl tried to check him, but she might just as well have tried to check a torrent. "I've brought you here to-night to the same spot." Timothy's voice was still low, but a note of exultant purpose coloured it. " I've been very patient, but I want you, Charity. I want you for my wife." Her hands twisted nervously together." Timothy, I told you I don't love you." "There's another man," the doctor said jealously. "No," Charity said on a note of panic." No, there isn't" The man laughed exultantly. " Then let me teach you how to love, my shy little sweet." He swept her resisting figure into his arms; his mouth closed over hers. Charity's whole soul rose in revolt. She struggled against him so fiercely that Timothy was forced to release her. She shrank back against the door, one small hand pressed against her mouth. " Timothy, how could you! " she breathed reproachfully. He frowned. " I've waited long enough, Charity, to hold you in my arms. God knows I've been patient, but a man can only stand so much. We're here together alone; and the night is all around us." His voice took on a wooing note. " Let me take you in my arms again and teach you not to be frightened of my love." In a rising panic the girl fumbled with the car door. To get away, anywhere, as long as it was out of reach of this lovemaking that revolted her. The door opened and Charity sprang out.

When he had recovered from a moment of stupefaction, Timothy was out after her fleeing figure. Charity could hear him shouting, " Charity! where are you? Charity, come back here! " She sped on, her skirts lifted high, into the bracken and down across the fields. Fear and distaste lent wings to her feet. The girl didn't slacken her pace until she reached the sanctuary of the farm garden. To the man standing in the shadow of the huge beech, her skirts bunched up to her breast, Charity looked like a nymph fleeing from a satyr. The girl leaned against the moonlit hedge, her breath coming and going in gasps. She gave a little scream as the man moved forward out of the darkness into the light. Her hands dropped her skirts and flew to her throat. "Oh—it's you—I thought it was -" Marcus Baron took his hands out of his pockets. " Yes," he said politely. " You thought it was? ..." Charity dropped her hands. " No one," she answered lamely. " No one in particular." Baron's keen eyes surveyed the girl. They took in the bonnet dangling down her back, the gleam of the white throat where the bodice of her dress had been torn undone. In her flight, Charity had lost most of her hairpins; one braid had tumbled down. His brooding gaze took in all this. Marcus Baron had been prowling round all the evening, an unlit pipe, clenched between his white teeth. He had been in. such a black mood, hardly anyone dared speak to him. Marcus surveyed Charity bleakly. "From whom are you running away?" he asked harshly. Overwhelmingly conscious of his searching eyes, Charity tried to order her dress. Why did she have to run into the very last person

she wished to see at the present moment?" I'm not running away. I—I was just in a hurry," the girl finished lamely. Marcus's thick brows drew together. " Has Danes been making love to you?" he asked steelily. Charity was silent. He caught her wrist in a vice-like grip. " Has he?" "I won't tell you," she said defiantly. " It isn't any of your business." Something in his voice caused the girl's heart to start pounding madly. Marcus, none too gently, forced her chin up. " Answer my question, Charity! " he commanded. "Yes," she said, " he has. Other men find me attractive, surprising as that may seem to you," she flung at him defiantly. Marcus' grip tightened until Charity could have cried out with the pain in her wrist. His eyes were cold no longer; they were blazing with grey fire. His flaming glance raked her face. " Apparently you haven't enjoyed Danes' caresses," he said bitingly. Charity was obstinately silent. Healthy anger consumed her; how dared he indifferently ignore her existence all these weeks, and then presume to catechise her like this? Let him assume what he pleased. "Did you?" Marcus ground out through his teeth, shaking the slight figure.

Some mad defiant impulse urged Charity to say the very last thing she should have said. She wrenched away her wrist. " Yes, I did enjoy it; and if it's of any interest to you, Timothy's asked me to marry him, and I might, too! " The storm broke then—the flaming storm of a man's passionate love. The leash he had been holding over his emotions slipped. The man had turned his back on love: been thwarted and denied it; but now the flood tide of his passion, dammed up so long, was having its own way with him. Its force broke down his selfcontrol; his iron will-power. Marcus caught the girl up to him, pressing her so closely against him that her breasts were bruised against his hard body. Charity lay in his arms, her face resistlessly upturned beneath his own. His mouth crushed upon hers, hurting her lips. Marcus spoke between stormy, ruthless kisses. " You're mine," he said, in a curiously tormented voice. " You belong to me; no other man shall ever have you." Charity lay in his arms like a pale flower bruised by the storm. She was shaken as much by the revelation of her own feelings as by the strength and passion of Marcus's. Revulsion had filled her whole being at Timothy's caresses, but Marcus' kisses thrilled her very soul. He held her out at arms' length, jealously searching her pale face by the light of the moon. " Well, whose kisses did you enjoy most, his—or mine?" he taunted.- He let her go so violently that she almost stumbled. Charity smiled at him tremulously, sweetly. "I lied to you, Marcus." she said hoarsely. " I hated every moment of Timothy's

kiss. That's why I ran away, because I couldn't bear him to touch me again." The man still jealously searched her face. " Is that how you feel towards me?" Charity's cheeks burned, but she faced him steadily. "No, I—I love you," she whispered. She swayed towards the man, her face upturned. "Kiss me again, Marcus. Please kiss me again." His arms closed round her demandingly. His hungry mouth strayed from her lips to her white throat, fingered greedily in the warm hollow. A little pulse began to beat there. She closed her eyes. For Charity time had no meaning. There was nothing outside the hard pressure of this man's arms and lips. The first demanding ruthlessness of his kisses softened into tenderness. Marcus kissed the girl's closed eyelids. He unpinned the other braid and loosened it, so that her hair flowed round them both, like a shining cloak. "You sweet, lovely thing, look at me," he demanded. Slowly, the thick lashes lifted. The man pressed his hard cheek against her soft one. " You lovely creature, with your sweet wise eyes." His caresses took on a new quality. They became hungry, demanding. Charity's own blood fired with new longing. She tightened her slim arms about his neck. Suddenly Marcus put her away from him. " Go to bed Charity," he said in an odd, clipped voice.

"But why -" she stammered, bewildered by this sudden transition from the blissful heights of love down to cold reality. Marcus snatched her to him again. He kissed her so hard and so long that the girl could almost feel his teeth bruising her lips. " Because," he said, against her mouth, " I can't hold you in my arms without wanting to possess you wholly, so go to bed. . . ." Charity undressed with trembling fingers, her mind in a whirl of happiness. She crept in between the cool sheets, hugging her happiness to her breast. She intended to stay awake to examine and remember every detail of the shining splendour of her love for the master of Raven's Rest. But she fell asleep almost at once, still listening for the nightly sound of his firm footsteps along the corridor.

CHAPTER SEVEN THE warm, early morning sun winked in the bright reflection of the latticed window-panes. He slanted his rays like inquisitive fingers, creeping through the long, drawn crimson velvet curtains. They lighted on the large ebony dressing-table, with its triple mirrors, and lightly caressed the face of the girl sleeping alone in the huge bed. With a muffled curse, Sheila Martin rolled over on to her face to shut out the unwelcome light. A stab of pain shot through the back of her skull as she moved. The girl felt dreadful: her head was splitting, and her tongue was swollen and dry. She dragged herself up in bed, the clothes huddled round her body. They'd certainly made a night of it last night—she and the gang. And all she'd got for her pains were a splitting headache and a brooding remembrance of why she'd finished up drinking like that. In the bright early morning light the girl looked ghastly. Her usually clear white skin was sallow, and her lovely dark eyes heavily shadowed. Sheila Martin, hunched in her bed, was full of self-pity. It was all Marcus's fault; nothing had been the same since the evening she'd made that silly blunder over the telephone message. How the devil was she to know that the brat had fallen down a well? Serve her right if she had drowned. Besides, that damned, cool, superior voice at the other end of the wire, demanding to speak to " Mr. Baron," had maddened her. Sheila's brows drew together in a scowl. The involuntary movement made her wince. Nothing had gone right for her ever since the day that mealy- mouthed, whey-faced girl came to Raven's Rest. She, Sheila, had hardly set eyes on Marcus Baron since that Sunday evening. She had rung up; written passionate imploring letters; even, in desperation, gone to the farm, to be told by a grimly triumphant Sophie that " the master was out" or " he'd

given orders not to be disturbed!" Sheila was no fool: she could add two and two together as well as anyone. She had been more than surprised to see Marcus at the Fete—usually he went out of his way to avoid such functions—but she had watched her opportunity for waylaying him. She'd followed the young farmer across to the flowerstall, listening to his conversation with that simpering little fool. Sheila had followed Marcus with her swaying, feline walk when he strode away; but even she, with her cool poise, had shrunk back, a little appalled at the anger in Marcus's face, when she laid her hand on his arm and he'd swung round. She had summoned up all her resources, all her feminine appeal; she'd stepped closer to him, deliberately provocative, so that her perfume had risen to his nostrils. "Marcus, darling, darling," she had murmured reproachfully, " it's been such a long time since we met." He had run his gaze over her figure: a survey so filled with deliberate insolence and contemptuous indifference that the girl's confidence had wilted before it. Without answering, without even speaking a word, he'd gone on his way. Thinking of yesterday, Sheila gritted her teeth. How dared Marcus ignore her like that? She'd gone out with Freddie and the gang in the evening, and she had been the gayest of the party, determined to forget her bitter mortification by drinking. Sheila got out of bed, holding her hand to her head as the fiery stabs of pain pierced her brain. She crossed to the dressing-table and unfastened the knot of ribbons on each shoulder, so that her nightdress fell to the ground in a filmy heap. The woman stepped out of it and slowly pirouetted before the large mirrors. Seriously and with deep satisfaction she ran her hands over her body. It was lovely, and she knew it. Slim and white, high-bosomed and

slender-waisted. Of course, at the moment, her face looked pretty ghastly, with this hangover, but an hour in a beauty salon would soon alter that. Sheila drew in a deep breath; she was securely triumphant in the knowledge of her sex appeal. With all her loveliness and the arts at her command, she would win Marcus Baron back; she was sure of it. And somehow she would get even with that pale-faced creature, Charity Tremayne. Sheila's maid softly opened the bedroom door. Sheila made no attempt to pull up her nightdress. " Run my bath," she ordered curtly, " and fold up this nightdress." Betty bent down to pick it up, but one fold was caught under Sheila's foot. As the maid lifted there was a slight tearing sound. The girl received a box on the ears that sent her reeling. "You clumsy idiot!" Sheila stormed. "You've ruined it! Get out of my sight! " Betty fled weeping. Give her notice in at once she would, whatever her mother said. She'd had enough of her mistress's tantrums....

Away across the fields, Charity was brushing Diane's hair. She'd wakened early that morning: to lie listening to the birds singing their early morning poems, of joy, savouring the exquisite delight of knowing that she loved and was beloved. Charity mentally took the precious memory of last night between her hands, examining it as one would a rare precious jewel. Marcus, the feel of his hands, his hard, masculine body, the touch of his lips. The girl thrilled with remembered longing. What would he say to her this morning? What would his first words be? Would he take her in his arms? Suddenly, filled with feverish impatience, Charity flung back the

bed clothes. She sang as she scrubbed her slim body in the. bath. She hummed a tune over the morning ritual of brushing her long hair. She leaned a little closer to the mirror, earnestly examining her face. Surely after the breathtaking hour of last night her face ought to be a little different. And it was. Her unusual eyes were deep and luminous; there was a pretty colour coming and going in her cheeks, and a smile played round her sweet mouth. Love was certainly a rejuvenating emotion. Diane twisted round to gaze lovingly at her. " You look awful happy this morning, Charity," she remarked. "Do I, poppet?" Charity laughed. "Yes, your eyes are all crinkled up as though you're laughing inside. Are you laughing inside, Charity?" "Yes, perhaps I am." "Why?" Diane asked, with all the devastating frankness of childhood. "Well, because the sun is shining, the birds are singing and—well, just because I feel extra happy, I suppose, Miss Inquisitive." Charity tweaked a curl in place. " Race you down to breakfast." . The two entered the kitchen breathless and laughing. Diane hopped from foot to foot. " I won, I won! " she shrieked. "Good morning, Sophie; it's a lovely morning," Charity said happily. Sophie glanced at her curiously, but she said nothing beyond, " Get along with you both; your breakfast is getting cold."

Charity hung back as they neared the dining-room door, suddenly consumed with shyness. She followed Diane slowly. The child was already seated at the table. " Goody, goody, Charity, we got wheat crackle flakes for breakfast!" Her governess answered in an abstracted fashion: she was struggling against a feeling of anti-climax. Apart from the two of them, the room was empty. Marcus wasn't there! Charity sank down in her chair. No doubt he was busy in the fields—farmers were busy men—but this wasn't just an ordinary every-day morning. Sophie came in carrying the steaming plate of bacon and eggs. "Has—has Marc—Mr. Baron had his breakfast?" the girl inquired tentatively. Sophie answered briskly, although she avoided looking directly at Charity, " Aye, that he has: had it two hours or more." She leaned over and set the plate on the table. " Mr. Mark's gone away." "Gone away?" Charity echoed blankly. "Aye, on business, he said—probably be gone two to three days, mebbe a week or two," Sophie said stolidly. "Did—did he leave a message or—or a note for me?" Charity faltered. Her beseeching gaze met the older woman's. It seemed to the girl that a gleam of understanding sympathy shone in Sophie's eyes,

although she shook her head soberly. " No, lass, he just told me he wasn't sure when he would be back." "Oh—thank you, Sophie." The girl slumped back in her chair. "You look awful sad, Charity," Diane said, troubled. " Why has Daddy gone away and left us?" Charity summoned up a mechanical smile. " I—I don't know, dear." Her mind in a whirl of conflicting emotions, she toyed with her breakfast. She felt too sick and churned up inside to eat. Fiercely she fought for some justification of Marcus's strange conduct, but surely, however urgent this sudden business was, he could have scribbled a little note or left a word with Sophie. After the exquisite delight of their hour together last night, for Marcus to go off in silence, as though nothing unusual had taken place between them—it—well, it was inexplicable. Charity just couldn't understand it. The girl brooded over his silence in the days that followed Marcus's strange departure. She was strangely unlike her normal serene self: abstracted, moody, restless. "What on earth is wrong with you, child?" Kit exclaimed one day. Charity was in the lounge, absently playing with the tassel of the blind-cord. Kit's mind travelled back to the evening when Marcus had dined with her after the hunting and she'd broached the matter of Charity's coming to Little Marth. Marcus had toyed with the cord in just the same way. The girl straightened her shoulders wearily." Nothing's wrong. I just feel restless, that's all."

Baron was gone for over two weeks. Charity was tensely strung up. She couldn't settle. Waiting . . . waiting for a letter, or a phone call... anything. She wanted Marcus with a steadily increasing longing that surprised herself. She wanted him, for his "kisses had awakened her womanhood, so that she wanted her man with every fibre of her being. It was unfair of Marcus to go away and leave her without a word, she told herself passionately. Unless—and coldness invaded her heart as the thought came to her—unless he'd just been taken with an idle fancy, and when he came back they'd revert to the old footing of employer and employee. Oh, no, no! her heart cried out. Marcus, you can't! not after the way you took me into your arms and kissed me!

Mac insisted on jerking the girl out of her preoccupied state. He found Charity having tea with Kit in the garden on Sunday afternoon. He lowered himself into a chair and eyed the tea-table appreciatively. "Cress and cucumber sandwiches, good! " "Greedy," Charity scoffed, but with none of her usual teasing gaiety. "By the way, young woman," Mac said, intently inspecting the contents of a sandwich, " don't forget that I'm taking you to the Hunt Ball on Thursday night." "Oh but, Mac," she objected, " I don't think I want to go now, and there's Diane -" "But you said the other week that Sophie would give an eye to her and -" He boyishly ran a hand through his hair. " Hang it all, Charity, you were dead keen to go a fortnight ago; I've got the tickets and we bought the dress for you to wear. What's happened to change your mind?"

Charity avoided his direct gaze. "Nothing's happened; it's just that I -" The girl's heart smote her at Mac's expression. Dear Mac! he'd set his heart on taking her to the County Ball dressed up in her finery. She couldn't disappoint him. Besides, what point was there in moping in her room? "Nothing's wrong, Mac," she said impulsively. " I just felt contrary for a minute. What time would you like me to be ready?" "About eight. Will that do?" "Yes, fine. I shall be able to put Diane to bed before getting myself ready." Charity was only human. Despondent as the girl felt, she experienced a thrill of feminine gratification at the reflection her mirror showed on the evening of the dance. The cream dress, highnecked, long- sleeved, perfectly plain, showed off her slender figure to advantage.. Charity's only jewel was an amethyst pendant on a slender gold chain that had belonged to her mother. Charity had brushed and brushed her hair until it shone dully brown. For a change she twisted up the mass of hair into a snood of gold veiling. Caught straight back, away from her small face, it revealed her unusual eyes and regular features to their best advantage. There were high-heeled little gold pumps and bag to match, and Kit had lent her a shawl, as the girl had no evening wrap. Charity fingered it lovingly. It was a beautiful piece of work: deep golden silk, heavily fringed, embroidered with sprays of mauve violets and little green leaves. It might almost have been made sped- ally to contrast with her dress. It provided the finishing touch to the picture of old-world daintiness. Charity picked up her bag and quietly tiptoed into the nursery.

Diane was valiantly struggling to keep awake. " Charity, you look like a pretty flower," she murmured drowsily. " You smell awful nice, too! " The girl bent over and securely tucked the bedclothes round the small figure. She laid her cheek gently against Diane's. " Thank you, poppet." She lingered a while, watching. The child was almost in the land of Nod. In repose her likeness to her father was apparent. The curve of the nose, the chin, although softly babyish, were startlingly like Marcus's, Charity thought wistfully. The sound of a car horn softly tooting outside roused the girl from her absorption. She sped down the stairs, said good night to Sophie and hurried out to the car. "Come on, woman," Mac said, good-humouredly impatient. " The time you females take to doll yourselves up!" "You shut up! " his companion retorted. " What about the times I've had to wait for you to escort me to socials, when you were eighteen and crazy about that silly Jameson girl? You used to come downstairs smelling to high heaven of hair cream—" Charity broke off laughingly as Mac threateningly lifted his hand off the wheel. "That's better," he said. " That's more like my girl." They grinned at each other in mutual affection. Charity felt her spirits begin to rise; the first time in two weeks. She was young; she was going to dance; she was conscious of looking her best; and perhaps, after all, there was a rational explanation for Marcus's continued silence.

She felt just a little apprehensive when she stood in the large entrance hall. Mac's hand closed over hers comfortingly." Don't look so scared, chicken: they can't eat you. You run along and leave your wrap. I'll wait here for you." He gave a long, low whistle of appreciation when she walked shyly down the wide, curving staircase. "Boy, what a smasher! " Mac grinned. " I see I shall have my work cut out keeping an eye on you to-night." "Don't talk nonsense," Charity said severely. " And I don't know where you pick up your disgusting slang." But her eyes danced, and she gave the arm she was holding a grateful squeeze. Mac's frank admiration was very comforting. They made an unusual couple moving round the floor. Mac with his red hair, friendly grin and his tall, bony frame, that held a hint of wild Highland grace; and the slender, demure little figure in the simple cream dress with the big, sparkling eyes. "By Jove! " One man, standing on the edge of the huge, brilliantly lit ballroom; screwed his monocle more firmly in his eye. " Who's that enchanting little gel? Do you know her, Benjy?" "No, but I'm going to get an introduction before the evening is out," returned his companion. Charity noticed Sheila Martin dancing by in the arms of a tall Guards officer with a little fair moustache and a receding chin. That young woman was strikingly clothed in a figure-fitting dress of glittering silver lame, her only note of colour a beautiful ruby necklace and pendant drop earrings. Although Charity disliked Sheila, she could admire the striking picture the other made. Sheila met Charity's gaze with a stony, contemptuous stare. After the

dance had finished the other woman disappeared from the ballroom with her escort. Charity idly wondered where she had gone, but she had but little time to spare to think of Sheila Martin. She was besieged with partners: she danced every dance. The unaccustomed exercise brought a lovely colour to the girl's cheeks, and the extravagant compliments whispered in her pretty ear by her various partners brought a twinkle to her eyes. Mac bore her off to supper. " I've hardly had a glimpse of you all evening," he grumbled, as he steered a path to the buffet. "You. were too occupied with your stately brunette to notice," Charity retorted. She laughed excitedly. " Oh, Mac, I'm having such fun! " "Are you? Good! Look, there's an unoccupied seat in the window, over there behind those curtains. You go and bag it, while I forage for some food.". It was dark and quiet behind the curtains on the broad windowseat. Charity slightly opened the window that looked out on to the terrace. The night air was cool on her flushed cheeks. The thick curtains muffled the sound of the orchestra, and the hum of voices seemed very, far away. Charity was dreamily content to sit and wait for Mac to bring her supper. The sound of footsteps rang on the flagstones of the terrace. A woman's high, tinkling laugh rang out, "... but, my dear man, Marcus always makes a point of being at the Hunt Ball. It's the only dance in the year that's worth going to, he says. No, depend upon it, there's something else behind his absence. It's most annoying of him, too. I wanted him to compere the dances." Her companion said something Charity couldn't catch, and then the woman spoke again." You mean that plain little creature in cream?

Yes, that's Diane's governess. I can't imagine what possessed Marcus to engage someone like her. Sheila was telling me the other day that she -" The couple moved out of earshot. Charity clenched her small hands to still their trembling. A wave of acute longing swept over the girl at the very mention of Marcus's name. She bit her soft mouth savagely to stop its silly quivering. Suddenly she wanted to get up and run away—right away from the bright lights, the mocking laughter, the malicious gossip. She didn't belong here among this crowd, and she never would—among these people with their false values and snobbish outlook. Even though they were Marcus's friends—the people with whom he rode and hunted, and in whose homes he was often entertained. Charity's hand went up to her quivering mouth. She belonged with people like Kit and Janet and David Fairford. Real, genuine unpretentious people. Charity stood up with a stifled sound. Mac, sweeping through the curtains, with a loaded tray, nearly came to grief. "Hey, steady on, young woman," he said indignantly. " Where do you think you're going? Look, I've got lobster patties and caviare and champagne. Pretty good, eh? And -" he broke off. " What's wrong, kid?" he asked gently. Silly tears rose to Charity's eyes at his gentle tone. She childishly dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. " Oh, Mac," she said unsteadily, " I don't want to spoil your evening, but I want to go. I can't stay here any longer." Mac looked at her miserable little set face. "All right, kid, we'll go; but let's eat first. It seems a shame to waste this food." He made the girl eat a few mouthfuls, and he insisted on her drinking the glass of champagne. " Just to bring the

sparkle back to your eyes!" he said. " Where would you like to go, Charity—home?" She twisted the wine-glass nervously round in her fingers. " No, I don't think so; not yet." "Well, let's go for a spin in the car, then," Mac said briskly. The September evening was fine, although there was more than a hint of autumn nip in the air. Charity shivered a little, and drew the thick shawl closer round her shoulders. Mac's sports car took the steep hills like a bird. Neither she nor Mac spoke as the car ate up the miles. Mac drew the car off the road and switched off the engine. "Come on, kid," he said gently, " you may as well tell me what's upset you. It's Baron, isn't it?" Charity turned to" him miserably. " Oh, Mac, do I show my feelings so easily?" "No, only to me, because I know you so well." His hand closed over hers comfortingly. " You may as well tell me; it will make you feel better. We used always to tell each other everything— well, almost everything," he added humorously. Charity's cold, slim fingers curled round inside his large palm. She laughed tremulously. Dear old Mac. " I'm so mixed up," she burst out. " I always thought falling in love would be pleasant, not painful and— and so uncertain." She clung to Mac's hand. "I didn't want to love Marcus," she admitted sadly. " It's only recently that I've faced up to the fact that I do. I thought that when I did fall in love, the man would be—well, he would be someone like Joddy or you—someone with the same kind of humour and fun, the same

ideals. Not a man who can be bitter and cynical and haughty . . . and even cruel," she added in a low voice. "Are you sure, kid?" Mac urged. " I mean are you sure that this is the real thing: that you really love Baron?" The girl's eyes were wet, but her smile was very sweet. "Yes, Mac," she said steadily. "I'm sure; life just doesn't seem to hold any savour or any purpose when he isn't there. Oh, you know what I mean, Mac. You love Jan." "Yes, I know what you mean, Charity." Mac eased himself back in the car seat." You know, love's a funny thing," he mused. " A fellow can go on for years; he even loves some of them a little. And then, one day, he meets the girl, no prettier, no cleverer than the others. And yet—and yet there's something about her that's different. It was love at first sight with Jan and me, bless her. Anyway, to get back to the subject, what about Baron? Does he love you?" "I—I don't know. I think so." There was anguished longing in Charity's quiet voice. Suddenly she put her hands over her eyes. "It's the uncertainty of not knowing," the girl cried brokenly. " Oh, Mac, I do love him so much! " He drew her head down against his shoulder and patted her back. Charity sat up and blew her nose on his proffered large white handkerchief. " Sorry, Mac, she said. " I didn't mean to weep all over you." "Don't be silly, Charity," he said severely. " It will do you more good to cry than to bottle it up inside yourself. So you really want to marry and settle down as a farmer's wife?" he teased.

Charity smiled. " Yes, apart from loving Marcus, I am happy here. Life in the country seems to have a deeper and richer meaning than life in the town. Although I've lived most of my life in London, I prefer it here. Besides, Diane -" But the rest of the girl's words were lost in a tremendous clap of thunder that seemed to split the very sky. Charity and Mac had been so absorbed, they hadn't noticed the clouds gathering swiftly away over in the west. The storm broke suddenly, violently. The rain came, in a torrential downpour, as though the very heavens had opened. The wind rose almost to gale force. Forked lightning flashed savagely again and again across the windscreen of the car. "Heavens!" Mac peered out." Some storm! That's quick work. It was a lovely evening when we stopped." "I suppose it's the climax to all the beautiful weather we've been having," Charity said. Mac glanced at her. " Scared?" "No," she replied. " I like watching storms." They sat fascinated for some time. All the furies of hell seemed to be let loose shrieking round the car. The leaves from the trees were snatched off and blown along the ground at a tremendous rate. Mac stirred at last. " I think we should be making tracks for home." Charity turned from her enthralled watching, and agreed reluctantly.

The high wind buffeted the small car valiantly fighting its way along the road. It was very dark, except when the lightning flashed; then, the road became as light as day. Mac drove on steadily, peering ahead. The rain lashed the windscreen furiously, obscuring his gaze. He drew the car to a standstill. " Confound it! I've lost my way. Do you know where we are, Charity?" The girl peered out doubtfully and shook her head. " No, Mac: we drove out a long way, didn't we?" Mac started up the car again. "Oh, well," he said philosophically. "Perhaps we shall come across a farm or something. We can ask them to direct us." They seemed to fight a way against the storm for ages. Suddenly the girl gave a cry. She caught at Mac's arm. " Look over there to the right, Mac. It looks as though a light is shining, doesn't it?" Mac jammed on his brakes. " I believe you're right, kid." A vivid flash of lightning lit up the sky. " It looks like a farmhouse." He cautiously eased the car through the gate. They dashed for the porch through the rain, Charity nearly falling in her high heels. "Phew!" Mac wiped his face. He banged on the door. They waited a while and he banged again. " Doesn't seem to be anyone at home," Mac said disgustedly. He tentatively tried the handle. To his unbounded surprise, the door swung open. The two looked at each other. Mac stepped into the hall. " Anyone home?" he shouted. Charity caught his arm. " Mac, I think I know this place. Marcus brought us here once. It belongs to some friends of his—Jim and Susan Taylor."

She crossed the hall and opened the kitchen door. A cat sat on a chair washing itself beside the kitchen range, but there were no other signs of life in the room. Charity rejoined Mac. She looked puzzled." That's funny, the door is open, but no one appears to be in. Surely they both couldn't be out in the farm buildings on a night like this." As though in answer to her query, Jim Taylor appeared at the top of the stairs, a lamp in his hand. " Who's there?" he called hoarsely. "It's me, Mr. Taylor," Charity called—'" Charity Tremayne, Diane Baron's governess. Marcus brought me over to see you, don't you remember?" The old farmer came down the stairs at a stumbling run. " Thank God someone's here! " "Why, what's wrong, Mr. Taylor?" "It's Susan, my wife," he said hoarsely. "She's ill. I've been trying to ring up the doctor, but the storm must have blown the wires down. I would go for him, only I daren't leave her." Mac was already turning up his jacket collar. " Where does the doctor live?" he asked crisply.. "You go with Mac, Mr. Taylor, and show him the way. I'll look after Susan," Charity urged. Jim Taylor didn't need any second bidding; he handed over the lamp and he and Mac fought their way out into the storm.

Susan was tossing fretfully in the disordered bed. " Jim," she called faintly. The young girl set the lamp on the old-fashioned chest of drawers. She crossed to the bed and knelt down, and took the plucking hands firmly within her own. " Jim's gone to get the doctor," she said clearly. "I'm going to stay with you. It's Charity. Charity Tremayne." The sick woman opened her eyes. " I... I remember you . .. you came with Marcus." "That's right," Charity smiled. " Lie still and try not to talk; it's bad for you." The girl found a bottle of eau-de-cologne on the dressing-table. She straightened the bedclothes, folded her handkerchief into a pad and bathed the woman's forehead with the sweet-smelling spirit. Susan smiled wanly," That's better." The perspiration was standing out in beads on the sick woman's face; she was obviously in great pain. Charity wiped them away. The girl was worried: if only the doctor would come ! Susan opened her eyes again. " You never came to help me make the jam," she said faintly. Charity's face contracted. She had often thought about that warm invitation, but Marcus had been so unapproachable; she hadn't liked to ask him to run her over. Diane had clamoured for Whisky, her puppy, and Marcus had promised the child he'd take her over to Uncle Jim's as soon as the harvest was in. "Try not to talk," she soothed the sick woman.

"Yes, I—I want to; it helps to take my mind off the pain. You're in love with my boy, aren't you, child?" -Susan Taylor laboured for breath. " I've always called him my boy since his mother died. He's a good lad, only he's like my Jim." Mrs. Taylor's pain-drawn face relaxed into a faint smile. " Needs handling. That's all most men need to make a happy marriage—careful handling and love." She gasped painfully, " Never forget, lass, it's the woman that makes or mars a marriage. She has to give, and give, and give again." Charity held the sick woman's hand tightly. " I won't forget," she promised. Susan's eyes closed. The heavy old clock on the wall ticked off the minutes slowly, warningly; the lamp cast flickering shadows on the wall. Where was the doctor? What had happened to Jim and Mac? Charity glanced at her watch. They'd been gone over an hour in this dreadful storm, she thought frantically. ... The two men in the car were still fighting against the wind. The storm seemed to have intensified. It was now at the height of its fury. Jim Taylor peered out into the black night with anxious eyes. " We're almost there, lad, I think," he muttered. " Down this lane and we're in the next village. Doctor's house is right along the row, second from end." Jim hardly waited for the car to stop before he was out, tugging at the bell. He strode past the woman who answered the door, almost knocking her over. " Is the doctor in, Martha?" "Mercy on us, Jim Taylor; you're in a hurry, aren't you?" she said caustically. "For God's sake, woman, is he in?" Jim said harshly.

"No, he's down the road at No. 6; Mrs. Dickens, it's her fifth. What's the matter, Jim? Is it Susan?" "Aye," he flung over his shoulder, " she's sick." Dr. Streddon was meticulously scrubbing his hands in the tiny kitchen when Jim Taylor caught at his arm. "Tom, you must come—it's Susan, she's been taken bad." The doctor dried his hands. " Take it easy, Jim. I'd better go home and get my car out: that's if we can get through on a night like this. How did you two get here, by the way?" "This gentleman's got a car outside," Jim Taylor explained briefly, indicating Mac; "but hurry, Tom..." The storm was still rising. The wind tore at the car like a living creature. The car staggered, but she kept going. Jim Taylor was hunched in his seat, staring blindly out into the driving rain. As well as endeavouring to keep the car on the road, Mac valiantly kept up a conversation with the rubicund doctor. " By George, I haven't seen a storm like this for years now. What about your beasts, Jim? Are they all safe?" "Damn the beasts! " the farmer growled. " It's my wife that I'm worrying about. Can't you make this car go any faster, lad?" "I'm going as fast as I can on these slippery roads," Mac protested. " There's no point in crashing and killing the three of us. That wouldn't help anyone." Susan's husband was out of the car and up the stairs before the other two had realised they had come to the end of that wild

journey. Tom Streddon collected his bag and climbed out heavily. Mac followed him up the stairs. The doctor bent over the bed, while Charity slipped away to stand at the foot in the shadows. "Now, now, Susan," Dr. Streddon said. " What's come over you, giving us all a fright like this?" The doctor's voice was light, but his hands were deft and reassuring. " Will you all leave the room, please?" Jim, Charity and Mac migrated as if by instinct to the kitchen, where the fire was still in and the cat asleep on the hearth. Charity quietly filled the kettle at the pump over the earthenware sink. She stirred up the fire into a blaze. A cup of tea would give them all a new lease of life. Jim Taylor couldn't keep still. He prowled about the floor, pausing occasionally in his pacing to open the door and listen. " It's been so sudden," he kept saying." One minute she was as right as rain, and the next she was doubled up on the floor. I got her to bed as best I could. I was going to run down to my stockman to get him to go for the doctor, but when the storm came on so quickly I couldn't leave her." "Try not to worry so much, Mr. Taylor," Mac said. "The doctor seemed a capable sort of bloke." The anxious old man sank down in his big chair. He bowed his white head in his hands. " I don't know what I shall do if she dies," he said brokenly. " We've been married for twenty-five years; it hasn't been an easy life for her either." The bitter tears trickled between his fingers. Charity's heart constricted with pity. In his distress, Jim Taylor was like a small boy, needing the touch of the loved and familiar one to reassure him. Charity went to the bowed figure. " Try to drink this hot cup of tea, Mr. Taylor."

Jim accepted it dully. When the doctor called from the top of the stairs, he was up them in a flash. "Is she—is she going to be all right, Tom?" The doctor put his fingers to his lips. " She's sleeping now. It's her appendix, Jim; but it's not very acute. I may be able to disperse it—I can't tell yet. In the meantime I've given Susan an injection. I'll be round to see her in the morning." In the immensity of his relief the old farmer clutched at the banister rail. " Thank God! Can I go in and see her now?" "Yes, she won't wake, but I should stay with her during the night." Mac opened the front door. " Good heavens! it's actually stopped raining." Charity looked over his shoulder. " The wind has died down too." Tom Streddon washed and dried his hands in the kitchen. He pulled on his overcoat. " Well, young man, how about running me home?" "Yes, of course, sir," Mac replied. He looked at Charity. " We'd better be on our way, too, hadn't we?" 'The girl looked doubtful. " I don't know: I don't like to think of going off and leaving them alone." The sound of a door softly closing brought three pairs of eyes round to the top of the stairs.

Jim Taylor came down. " She's sleeping easily now. I'm a man of few words," he said huskily. " I just want to say thank you to all of you for all you've done tonight." "That's all right, Mr. Taylor," Mac said awkwardly. " Glad to do anything we can to help." Charity took a step forward. " I don't like to go off and leave you alone. Would you like me to stay with Susan?" Jim's smile momentarily lit up his lined, weary face. " No, lass, you go home and get some rest. My stockman's daughter '11 be coming in in the morning to clean up. She'll come and look after the missis. We'll manage between us. You'll be back in the morning then, Tom?" he said, turning to the doctor. "Aye, man, I'll be round. Good night, Jim; don't worry." It was as though the storm had never raged, lashing the earth with its fury. Everything was quiet and still. The moon was just beginning to shine through the clouds, receding away to the east. A few stars twinkled in the sky. Now the crisis was past, Charity was conscious of heavy fatigue. She glanced at her wrist-watch—and looked again, incredulously. Surely not! it couldn't be two-thirty in the morning. She held her watch close to her ear. It was still ticking. " Mac, do you know what time it is?" she demanded. "Yes, pretty late, or early, whichever you choose to call it." "But what time did we leave the dance?"" "About nine-thirty, I should say."

Tom Streddon blew his nose." You two youngsters been dancing? I used to go. Getting too old for things like that these days, though." "I expect you're a busy man, doctor," Mac said. " Do you get many night calls like this?" "Quite often," the doctor twinkled—" mostly for babies; they usually choose to time their entry into the world in the early hours of the morning." He peered out of the window. " Oh, here's my garden gate. Good night to you both. Very glad to have met you." "Coming in the front seat now, Charity?" Mac asked. The girl roused herself. " Yes, I may as well." They were both silent on the homeward journey. Charity was occupied with her wishful thoughts. After twenty-five years of marriage, Jim and Susan Taylor still loved each other dearly. "It will be a good bit after three by the time I get you home," Mac remarked. " Have you got a key?" Charity roused herself with an effort. " Yes, I've got the key to the front door in my bag." Mac left the car in the road outside Raven's Rest, but he insisted on carrying her round in his arms over the wet ground. "How clean and sweet the garden smells after the rain! " Charity remarked dreamily. . Mac dumped his burden down in the front porch. " Sure you'll be all right now, kid?" "Yes, thanks, Mac."

She put her arms round his neck ; she lightly kissed his cheek." Thanks for everything, Mac. Good night: see you to-morrow, I expect." The girl quietly closed and bolted the heavy door. She had gathered up her skirts, preparatory to climbing the stairs, when the study door opened. Marcus Baron stood in the lighted entrance. Charity swung round. Her little pale face lit up radiantly. She took a step towards Marcus. "So you've come home," the man said in an expressionless voice. Charity's heart sank. Her smile disappeared at his tone. " Yes," she said apologetically. " I'm afraid I'm rather late." Marcus shot out an arm and looked at his watch. " Late? Oh no, it's quite early in the morning." Charity's lip quivered. If Marcus was going to be angry and sarcastic with her, she couldn't bear it. She was so tired. Her head was beginning to spin and her limbs felt leaden. She turned wearily away towards the stairs. " I'm going to bed, Marcus. Good night." Baron's voice arrested her as she reached the first step. " Oh no, you aren't, not yet. I want to talk to you." Charity spoke without turning. " Can't it wait until the morning?" "No," the man said curtly, " it can't. Come into the study, please. I'll talk to you there." Marcus turned on his heel and walked into the lighted room.

Charity hesitated, but something in the set of Marcus's straight back prompted her to obey. He closed the door. " Sit down," he said. Charity sat down gratefully; her limbs felt too weak to support her. Marcus "took up his favourite position, his back against the fireplace. " Where have you been?" The man's voice was quietly pitched and well under control, but it was as though he was trying to keep some terrible anger in check. Charity pleated the fringe of her shawl." Mac took me to the Hunt Ball," she said nervously. Marcus's mouth hardened. " I suppose you're going to tell me you've been there, dancing until this hour of the morning." "No," Charity said quietly, " I'm not going to tell you that. We left early. We went for a spin in the car." "I suppose you've been riding around in the storm for almost six hours," Marcus sneered. Charity rose to her feet. She faced him squarely. " I don't know why you're angry with me, Marcus. I never know. But I don't have to stay here and listen to you." She swirled round towards the door. The man caught the girl by the arm in a grip that made her wince. " You're here, and by God you're going to listen to what I have to say! " he thundered. It was obvious that he was in the grip of a violent anger held for the moment in leash.

The girl stared at his beloved, dark, stormy face in genuine bewilderment. Charity couldn't know the fuel that had been added to the flames of the man's wrath during the past few hours. Marcus Baron had driven back to Raven's Rest with one idea uppermost in his mind—to hold Charity's beloved little body in his arms and tell her he loved her. To the man consumed with feverish longing, the car seemed to crawl along. He had entered his home, to find his daughter fast asleep upstairs and Sophie placidly darning in her old rocking-chair. "Where's Charity?" he had demanded. Old Sophie looked over the top of her gold- rimmed spectacles at her nursling. " She's out." "I can see that," Marcus returned." Do you know where she's gone?" "Aye, the lass has gone off to the Hunt Ball with that tall young Scottish fellow." Marcus thrust his hands into his pockets. " Oh," he said quietly, ominously. A gleam of humour lit Sophie's shrewd old eyes. " And is that all you've got to say to a body when you come home?" she said tartly. " Seems to me I ought to have spanked you harder when you was young, Master Marcus—to make you mend your manners." Marcus had the grace to look ashamed for a moment. Then he rose, elaborately casual. " I think I'll look in at old Griffiths and see how the ball's going."

Marcus' tall figure in casual tweeds stood out among the hunting pinks and the black-and-white of formal evening dress. Marcus was unconcerned. He had been in too much of a hurry to stay and change. His haughty glance moved round the ballroom, seeking one small figure. His eyes lighted on Kit, and he caught her arm, pulling her to one side. " Kit, have you seen Charity?" he asked urgently. Kit's eyes searched the man's face; apparently satisfied with what she saw, she informed him that Charity had left the dance not ten minutes ago. The man's face fell. " Do you know where she's gone?" Kit shook her head. She had seen the couple go, but she hadn't been near enough to speak to them. Marcus was held up, exchanging greetings with several of his friends; but he refused to stay, although they wanted to detain him. The young farmer sat in his car undecided. He absently put his hand in his pocket for his tobacco pouch. Blast! it was practically empty; he'd meant to buy another ounce before leaving Sedchester. Marcus turned on the ignition. He'd drop into the Barley Corn and buy some more tobacco, before going home. By that time Charity would have arrived back at Raven's Rest and he would see her—at last. The man's hands gripped the steering-wheel until his knuckles whitened. With an effort he controlled his feverish impatience, and started up the car. Joe Overden, landlord of the tavern, was exchanging good-natured banter over the stained counter with his customers. " Evening, Mr. Baron. What'll you have?" "Pint of bitter, Joe, and two ounces of St. Bruno."

Marcus sipped his beer, one arm negligently propped on the counter, lazily surveying the rest of the bar. The farmer's wandering attention was caught by a small group in the corner. His tall figure stiffened: Sheila Martin, Freddie Brown, Hazel St. John and Bill Carpenter. Damn! he felt in no mood to encounter them and run the gauntlet of Sheila's gibes. Marcus turned to go; but Charity's name caught his ear. "But I tell you I saw them," Sheila was saying. " Charity Tremayne and that boy-friend of hers, Mac something or other. There they were in Jones' dress shop as large as life. He was signing a cheque for a dress, the one she's wearing to-night. I heard him say, ' And don't ask me for any more clothes this quarter; you've already overdrawn your allowance.' Of course there's something between them. A man doesn't buy a woman clothes for nothing," Sheila added scornfully. " Look at her to-night," she went on venomously, " making goo-goo eyes at all the men in the room. Bah! she makes me sick, pretending to be such a goody-goody parson's daughter." "Maybe you're right, Sheila," Bill Carpenter put in. " It's usually these quiet women that are the hottest when they get going." He raised his glass to finish his beer, but it never reached his lips. A hand sent it flying and a hard fist crashed into his mouth, sending him reeling half-way across the room. "And I'll do the same again to the next person who spreads such filthy lies, and that goes for all of you! " Marcus Baron thundered. He stood glaring menacingly at them. Not even Sheila Martin dared answer him. The young farmer stood for a moment looking them over contemptuously before he turned on his heel and slammed the door.

He raced back to Raven's Rest like a man possessed of the devil. He reached the farm just as the storm broke with appalling swiftness. The young farmer was too busy to bother with personal problems then. He and Eli and the others worked hard and long, securing the sheep and horses, and bringing them to safety. Marcus was soaked right through to the skin when at last everything was safe. He let himself quietly into the kitchen. Sophie was sitting, dressed in a purple flannel dressing-gown, in her rocking-chair. The master of Raven's Rest stripped off his wet shirt. " Why aren't you in bed, Sophie? It's late," he said irritably. "I'm worried about Miss Tremayne; Master Mark; she hasn't come home yet." Marcus' hand was arrested in mid-air. " Not here yet? Are you sure?" he demanded. " She left the dance over four hours ago." "Yes, I'm sure. I've just been up to her room to look; she's not there, nor in Miss Diane's room. She's out in this dreadful storm. Just hark at that wind." Sophie shivered. " It fair gives me the creeps, and there's Miss Diane sleeping as peacefully, as a newborn babe." "You go to bed and get your rest, Sophie," her master said quietly, ominously. " I'll wait up for Miss Tremayne." Marcus kept his vigil over the fire in his study. Up and down the room he paced, his brain in a turmoil. The poisonous seed planted by Sheila, and watered by the warped, bitter side of the man's nature, flourished into life. " A man doesn't buy a woman's clothes for nothing." " Every man in the room dancing with her." "You've overdrawn your allowance again."

Marcus put his hands over his ears to shut out the mocking voices that tormented him. His jealous suspicions were nearly driving him mad. He tried to telephone Kit, to find out if Charity was staying the night with her, but the line was out of order. The hours crept by on leaden feet. The storm died down, rumbling itself away over towards the east. Marcus twitched the curtain aside. The raindrenched garden was quiet and still under the pale moon. A car was coming down the road. Marcus stiffened. He watched Mac carry Charity in. The watching "farmer saw the girl lift her arms and kiss the other man. A red mist seemed to come between them and himself. All his jealous suspicions and anxiety, all his frustrated longing and desire, his bitter experience of women and their deceitful guile came to a head. Marcus flung open the study door .... And now Charity was defying him. The man's hot temper, usually under control, was getting the upper hand. He filing her round to face him. " You're lying. You thought you could throw dust in my eyes, didn't you?" Like an avalanche his bitter anger broke over Charity's defenceless head. Her tired brain reeled under the onslaught. She tried once or twice to interrupt, to explain about Susan, but the girl gave up the attempt. Marcus was obviously past reasoning with. "You don't care which man has you, do you?" he said tauntingly. "First myself, then Danes, and now this—this Scotsman. I wonder who'll be next. You're like the rest of your sex—lying, deceitful, full of feminine petty little tricks. And I thought you were different!" Marcus gave a harsh, derisive laugh. " I was actually going to ask you to marry me to-night. I'd even bought a ring. I ought to have known better. Poor, gullible fool! " he said bitterly. " God knows I've had enough experience of women's treachery in

the past. Well, you won't fool me any more. You can pack your bags and leave here tomorrow. I don't want you here any longer! " Charity's weary brain numbly registered his words. She was so tired. She looked up at the man's hard face, his sensitive mouth set in bitter, cynical lines. "Here's something to remember me by before you go." Before Charity could escape, he had caught her up in his arms, covering her face and neck with burning kisses. Charity fought him fiercely, anger lending her tired body strength. But it was futile to struggle. She lay spent in his arms. There was no tenderness or love behind Marcus's brutal kisses, nothing but thwarted passion and the desire to hurt. He kissed her mouth, ruthlessly forcing her lips apart. Charity hated herself for the way her weary body responded; it seemed to have a will of its own. Marcus almost threw her from him. He was breathing heavily. "There, perhaps you'll remember at least one man now," he said heavily. " Go to bed before I do something that I'll live to regret." Charity fled up the stairs. She pulled off her dress and tumbled into the cool solace of the bed. There the burning tears came. " Oh, Marcus! how could you be so cruel and unjust?" she moaned. She pressed her hot face and bruised mouth into the cool pillows. Unrestrainedly she wept for her lost love, for Marcus, for herself, until at last, as the dawn came, she slept.

CHAPTER EIGHT Miss ENGLISH'S finely modelled face was absorbed. A slight frown appeared between her well-marked brows as she studied the report on her desk. It was the usual story—bad parents, neglect, ill treatment. The matron of Dellwood Babies' Home tapped her excellent teeth with a pencil. She was making up her mind whom she should put in charge of this new child. Miss English pushed back her chair and rose with her customary brisk competence; she swept the report into a drawer. The matron walked with her unhurried step down the light, airy corridors, seeking the person she wanted. The girl was bending over a cot, a child in her arms, her slim waist encircled by the starched bow of her apron. "Ah, there you are, Charity," the matron said. " We've a new case coming in to-morrow morning— a little girl. From the report the child is in rather a worse state than usual. I want you to have complete charge of her at first." "Yes, Matron," the girl answered obediently. Miss English looked at the cither. " I thought this was your day off?" "Yes, Matron, it is, but -" The older woman keenly scrutinised the young girl's face. "No buts, now, off with you, and try to get more roses into that pale face. You won't be any use to us at all if you make yourself ill," she said not unkindly.

"Very well, Matron," the girl said quietly. Charity hated to admit, even to Miss English, how loath she was to leave the little sanctuary of the Home; how she shrank from facing people. She buried her face in the tiny tot's soft hair laying him down for his morning sleep, then she went obediently to her room to change. Matron was kind, but strict, and her staff obeyed her commands without question. Charity slowly took off her white overall and selected a little apple-green woollen dress. It was two months since she had closed and locked the door on the chapter of her life at Raven's Rest. She had grown thinner, and her face had faint hollows under the cheekbones, so that the enormous violet eyes with their faint, fragile shadows seemed too large for her small face. She slowly selected brown shoes, gloves and bag, and warm coat, for the day was cold. A whole day stretched before her: an arid length of time to be spent somehow. Charity walked slowly through Green Park. The brown leaves and the frosted grass crackled beneath her feet. Charity shivered and turned up her coat collar. There was no sense in wandering about London on a cold day. She might as well eat some r lunch, then go to the cinema to while' away the time. . . . But she couldn't concentrate on the film. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, giving herself up to the doubtful joy of memories. Charity hadn't seen Marcus again after that dreadful night when he'd told her to get out. She had packed her cases and gone straight to Kit, without even saying goodbye to Diane. She couldn't. Kit had phoned Mac to come over, but to all their inquiries and pleas Charity had just turned a stony, set face and repeated that she was

leaving Little Marth, and going back to London. Seeing it was useless, they ' had both left off protesting, although Kit Harcombe privately determined to see Marcus at the earliest possible moment and find out what had happened. Mac drove her back to London. He had done everything possible for her, forbearing to ask any more questions. He found a flat—not much of a flat, it was true, but somewhere where she could live. Charity went to an employment agency, who had sent her to Dellwood. It was privately owned, but by whom no one seemed to know. Its main purpose was to take care of unwanted and neglected babies and children, whose parents had either left them or generally neglected them. The salary was small, but she lived in at the Home. In a negative way Charity was happy there. Her work didn't give the girl a great deal of time to brood about her own troubles. And the piteous background of most of the little ones made her feel that she should be grateful at least for her own happy childhood. But it was the nights that Charity dreaded. The days she could cope with: filling them with hard work; but the long, dark, lonely nights were becoming an obsession with her. Hour after hour she lay, staring into the darkness with dry, burning eyes, or weeping into her pillow, the girl's slender body shaken with sobbing. Marcus hated her. His voice, that rare, sweet, slow smile of his, the touch of his hands, the feel of his cool, masculine lips on her mouth. In the merciful darkness of the cinema slow tears rolled down Charity's face. She had written to Kit and Janet, omitting her address, but telling them that she was well and happy. Mac had tried again to get out of the girl her reasons for leaving Little Marth, but she had steadfastly refused to tell him. He had taken

over the lease of her flat when she had got the job at Dellwood, and gone to five there himself. "Hang it all, Charity," he said one evening when they were sitting in the flat having supper. " I can't for the life of me see why you had to leave. You were happy there; you had Kit Harcombe and Janet, and you liked your job. I was happy to think I could go back to South Africa, leaving you with friends." He ran his hands worriedly through his red hair. " Now I shall have to go back with the knowledge that you're alone in London. I feel as though I'm letting Joddy down, and after all he did for me." Charity touched the man's hand. " Please, Mac, I'd rather not talk about it. That part of my life is over and done with," she said quietly. Mac regarded her averted face. " It's Baron that's at the bottom of all this. I'd like to get my hands on him for five minutes! I'd -" "Please, Mac," Charity whispered. " I just don't want to talk about it any more." "Oh, all right," Mac slammed down the lid of the cheese dish, " but anyway, how about coming to Capetown with me? You could live with Jan and me. I should know you were well and happy then. What do you say?" Charity shook her head. " No, Mac, you mustn't start off your married life with a third person. And— and I'd rather not leave England." "Why?" Mac demanded. "You've no ties here now." "No ties!" Charity almost laughed in his face. " No, Mac, you go out and marry Jan and settle down. I shall be perfectly all right

where I am. I like my job. Matron is a darling, and the other nurses are very nice." Mac regarded the girl, with dissatisfied eyes. " You're too thin," he complained. "You always were a scrawny brat: you're getting worse than ever now."

Charity fished out her handkerchief. She wiped away the traces of tears and powdered her nose before going out of the cinema into the dull November afternoon. It was already dusk. The crowds were streaming into the big cafe for tea. The girl followed the crowd apathetically. It wasn't until she finally settled down that she noticed the other occupant of her table. Something about the other girl's face struck a chord in Charity's tired brain. She mentally snapped her fingers. Of course! It was the girl Timothy had introduced to her at the Smuggler's Rest. Mary Garside was smiling. " I wasn't sure whether you recognised me or not," she said pleasantly. The waitress came up for their order. " Oh, just a pot of tea for me," Charity said. " I'm not hungry." Mary leaned across the table. " Do try some of their buttered toast," she urged. " I can thoroughly recommend it. Four rounds of buttered toast, please," Mary said to the waitress, without waiting for the other's consent. Charity stirred her tea miserably. She was being reminded of the past to-day with a vengeance.

"I've often wondered if I should see you again," Mary said impulsively. " I was rather rude to you when we met," the girl bent her head, " but I was terribly unhappy then." Charity's heart went out to her. Mary knew what it was to have an unhappy love affair tearing at her heart. "I'm sorry," Charity said unhappily. " It wasn't my fault that Timothy fell in love with me." Mary Garside was actually—yes, actually smiling. A lovely colour rose to her cheeks. " I saw Timothy the other day." She bent and looked at her plate in some confusion. " He—I—I think Timothy is -" "I know what you're trying to say," Charity said. She touched the other girl's hand. "I'm so glad for you. It's what I hoped would happen." Mary stared at Charity in astonishment. " Then you don't mind? I thought you would be upset. I wouldn't have said anything, only I thought it Was the right thing to do, to be honest with you." Charity smiled gravely. " I was never in love with Timothy, Mary. I liked him very much—as a friend. He has numerous qualities that I admire. But liking isn't loving. And Timothy wasn't really in love with me. He endowed me with a lot of qualities I don't possess. I'm glad he's come to his senses in time." Mary smiled—a secret, slow smile. " So am I!" Mary pushed back her chair. " I must fly. I have to be on duty at seven. Which way are you going?"

"I'm not sure," Charity said. " I'm working here in London now, you know." Mary sounded genuinely surprised. " Are you? Then perhaps we shall be able to see something of each other." She took a card from her bag. " Look, here's my address and phone number. Let me know when you're at a loose end. I should like to see you again. I must fly now. Cheerio." Charity looked after the flying figure. There was a little glow at her heart. Mary Garside's offer of friendship touched her inexplicably. Almost without her own volition at all, Charity's feet carried her out into the street. She made her way across the park towards Mac's flat. He had been away during the last two days, but they had arranged to spend the evening together before he went. She felt on the ledge above the door for the key. It wasn't there. Mac must have arrived back sooner than he'd expected. She opened the door. The fire was lit, and she could see a pair of long, masculine legs sticking out from the depths of- the armchair. Charity switched on the light and removed her coat. "Hullo, Mac. I didn't think you'd be back yet—" Charity's voice died away. Her hand flew to her throat. It wasn't Mac that was extricating himself from the-armchair. . . . Marcus Baron was standing on the hearthrug looking strangely unfamiliar in a grey lounge suit. The tall man and the slender young girl faced each other.... Marcus took a step towards her. "Charity, please don't run away from me."

His voice was strangely humble and pleading, not at all like the haughty farmer. Charity stayed where she was. The man's eyes met hers. With a muffled exclamation Marcus was across the room, snatching her up in his arms. And he was kissing her with all the hard-held love and longing he had kept at bay since the night he had first held her in his arms in the garden. Charity responded, in glad surrender, giving him her lips, conscious only that here was the man she loved holding her close against him. For both of them time itself halted in this golden moment.... Marcus carried her across the room. He set her down gently in the armchair by the fire, then took himself away, apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as though to keep them from holding her. The man stood looking down at her slender form, the quick passion still smouldering in his grey eyes. "I didn't mean to touch you," he said huskily, " until we'd cleared up all our misunderstanding, but the sight of you, after so long -" He broke off. "Why have you come, Marcus?" Charity asked in a low, unsteady voice. The man walked across to the window, with that air of unconscious hauteur she knew so well, and stood with his back to her. " To tell you that I love you, and to ask you to be my wife," he replied. Charity was silent.

Marcus swung round. "You are going to forgive me, aren't you?" he demanded. She looked at him, her heart in her eyes. " I forgave you long ago, but I'm not going to marry you, Marcus," she said quietly. He made an abrupt movement, then he grew very still. "My darling," he said, and Charity's heart leapt madly at the unbounded wealth of tenderness in his voice, " I can't blame you for not wanting to marry me after the way I've treated you. I ought to be on my knees, grovelling in the dust, begging your pardon and forgiveness. Only," Marcus added with a wry smile, " eating humble pie doesn't come easily to me. No, don't"—he held up his hand—" don't say anything until I've finished. "Let me begin at the beginning," he went on. " I don't know if Kit has ever told you anything of my early married life. Gillian was very lovely -" He saw how uncontrollably Charity winced: he made an abruptly checked movement towards her. "Go on, Marcus," Charity said unsteadily. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to still their trembling. "Well," the man continued, " my wife was beautiful. I suppose it was her loveliness that I fell in love with—that and the thrill of capturing a highly sought after young woman from under the noses "of all her other admirers. I've been doing a lot of thinking these past two months," Marcus said. " Reasoned thinking, that I should have been capable of four years ago, only I wasn't. I don't think my marriage would have lasted, even if Gillian hadn't taken things into her own hands. Deep down, I really knew, before Diane was born—only I wouldn't admit even to myself—that it was infatuation I'd had for my wife, not love. Gillian wasn't wholly to

blame. I see that now. I should never have transplanted her into the country at all. She was completely out of her element. And then she loathed and feared motherhood. I can see now," Marcus said slowly, " the circumstances that led her to run away with Philip. My brother was charming; spoke the same language, I suppose. It was the blow to my pride that I couldn't forgive," he said harshly. He started pacing the room, his cold pipe clenched between his strong, white teeth. " The fact that people would pity me, Marcus Baron; and so I built a wall between my innermost Self and other people. I was never going to let anyone become intensely important to me again, and so deliver myself bound into their power, to become vulnerable again. And then you came." He eyed Charity's listening figure with whimsical tenderness. " A little scrap of a girl, no higher than my heart. God knows, I fought against you right from the beginning, you with your lovableness, your sweet dignity. But I wouldn't admit my love until the night of the Fete, when I held you in my arms and kissed you. I didn't sleep at all that night," he confessed, with the ghost of a twinkle. "Why did you go away without a word, then?" the girl asked passionately. " It was a cruel thing to do, Marcus," she added in a low, unsteady voice. His face hardened. "I went away to try to straighten out my tangled emotions. I knew if I stayed, I should be swayed by your presence." He threw out his hands in unconscious appeal. " Sweet, I don't know if I can make you understand. I was in a peculiar frame of mind. Part of my nature resented loving you. I hated to admit that a scrap of a girl could have any power over me. So I stayed away, fighting you, until I couldn't stay away any longer; until I was prepared to admit that all I wanted or desired in this world was

you. I think I went a little mad," he said harshly, " when I returned to find you out with another man. Why didn't you tell me the truth about Macturnen and about— that night?" he asked. "I tried to explain, but you wouldn't listen," Charity said. "No," Marcus admitted, " I know. I wasn't in the frame of mind to be reasonable. I was lost in a hell of my own making; a turmoil of insane jealousy and distrust. I've been through hell, too, since I drove you away," the man added miserably. " I came to my senses to find you gone. And no one knew your whereabouts, not even Kit. Although she gave me a good dressing down when I asked her. I wanted you —God, how I wanted you! " Marcus said fiercely— " and I couldn't find you. I advertised, I was even going to a detective agency. Everywhere I went at Raven's Rest I was haunted by the memory of your presence. Diane cried herself to sleep at night wanting you. I felt like doing the same," he said passionately. "And then yesterday Macturnen came to see me." Marcus grinned faintly. " We almost had a stand-up fight at first, before we came to an understanding. Macturnen's a good chap," he said abruptly. He took a step nearer to the girl. " And so I'm here. I've found you at last. I know I behaved like a swine towards you, beloved. I have no excuse to offer, except that I love you: you are all I want in this world and beyond," he said in a passionately sincere tone. " Will you many me, Charity? Without you," he said simply, " I shall have nothing! " Charity couldn't stand any more. Marcus the arrogant, the proud, so strangely humbled. The long- held-back tears rained down the girl's face. It was too much for Marcus. He had her in his arms in a single stride.

"Don't cry," he whispered against her hair, " please don't cry, my little love. It tears my heart to see you weeping." Charity checked her sobs with an effort. Marcus put a finger under her chin. He looked deeply into her eyes. " Am I forgiven?" She nodded dumbly. "And you'll marry me?" he demanded. The lovely colour rose in a rich tide to the girl's face and neck. Her eyes fell. " If you really want me." "If I really want you," he echoed. "God! if you only knew just how much I want you." Marcus kissed her tear-wet eyes, and sweet, mobile mouth, lingeringly, deeply, as a thirsty man in a desert consumes a cup of water. He was filled with tenderness towards his little love. He lifted the girl in his arms and sat down in the armchair, with her clasped tightly against him. How long they sat like that neither of them knew. "We'll be married right away," Marcus said, his lips against the softness of her neck. " And then I can take you home, where you belong. Diane has been crying her heart out for you." "The poor poppet!" Charity exclaimed. She searched Marcus' face with wistful eyes. " Do I really belong there with you, at Raven's Rest?" Marcus smiled. " Do you remember I told you once about heart's ease? You are my heart's ease, you sweet with your strange,

beautiful eyes. You've come into my life, healing its scars with your own sweetness and balm. You belong to me, my darling little love." He caught her passionately to him again. Held thus against his heart, Charity remembered Susan's words: "It's the woman that has to give in a marriage, child. She has to give, and give, and give again." She drew the dark head down to her breast and ran her fingers through the crisp waves. That was all Charity asked of life: to give herself and her love, wholly and without reserve to Marcus, for ever.