He had plucked a cowslip and was looking
into it so intently that he neither heard nor saw her.
"Mr. Polwarth!" said Helen.
He lifted his eyes, rose, and taking off his hat, said with a smile,
"I was looking in the cowslip for the spots which the fairy, in the
Midsummer Night's Dream, calls 'rubies.'--How is your brother, Miss
Lingard?"
Helen answered with cold politeness, and led the way up the garden
with considerably more stateliness of demeanour than was necessary.
When he followed her into the room, "This is Mr. Polwarth, Leopold,"
said the curate, rising respectfully. "You may speak to him as
freely as to me, and he is far more able to give you counsel than I
am."
"Would you mind shaking hands with me, Mr. Polwarth?" said Leopold,
holding out his shadowy hand.
Polwarth took it with the kindest of smiles, and held it a moment in
his.
"You think me an odd-looking creature--don't you?" he said; "but
just because God made me so, I have been compelled to think about
things I might otherwise have forgotten, and that is why Mr.
Wingfold would have me come to see you."
The curate placed a chair for him, and the gate-keeper sat down.
Helen seated herself a little way off in the window, pretending, or
hardly more, to hem a handkerchief.
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