“Do,” said Leopold. “Think, Helen!—If he is the wisest and best man Mr. Wingfold ever knew! Tell him where to find the key.”
“I will go myself,” she said—with a yielding to the inevitable.
When she opened the door, there was the little man seated a few yards off on the grass. 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.