Resenting the indifference of his neighbours, Mr. Wylder undertook the restoration of a certain old manor house on his property in order to fill his time. He had haunted it as a boy, chiefly for the sake of its attendant gooseberries and apples. It had since fallen into decay.

The clergyman of the parish, one Thomas Wingfold—a man who loved his fellow and would give him of the best he had, a man who was a Christian first and a churchman second—had for almost three years puzzled both heart and brain to find what could be done for these his new parishioners. Wingfold had never seen so much as a glimmer of spirituality in Mr. Wylder, however, and he had seen more than a glimmer of something else in his wife. Between him and either of them, their common humanity had not yet shown a spark. What he had seen of the girl he liked, but he had not seen much.

It was a fine frosty day in February, about twelve o’clock, Mr. Wingfold walked up the avenue of Scotch firs to call on Mrs. Wylder. He was dressed like any country gentleman in a tweed suit, carried a rather strong stick, and wore a soft felt hat, looking altogether more like a squire than a clergyman—for which most of his people liked him the better.

Pious people in general seem to regard religion as a necessary accompaniment of life. To Wingfold it was life itself—with him God must be all, or he could be nothing. He was a rather square-looking man, with projecting brows, and a grizzled beard. The upper part of his face would look dark while a smile was hovering about his mouth. At another time his mouth would look solemn, almost severe, while a radiance, as from some white cloud nobody could see, illuminated his forehead. He was noted among the farmers for his common sense, as they called it, and among the gentry for his frankness of speech, which most of them liked. He generally walked with his eyes on the ground, but would now and then straighten his back, and gaze away to the horizon as if looking for the far-off sails of help.

He rang the doorbell of the Hall and asked if Mrs. Wylder was at home. The man hesitated, looked in the clergyman’s face, and smiling oddly, answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Only you don’t think she will care to see me?”

“Well, you know, sir—”

“I do. Go up and announce me.”

The man led the way and Mr. Wingfold followed. He opened the door of a room on the first floor, and announced him. Mr. Wingfold entered immediately that there might be no time for words with the man and a message of refusal.

Discouragement encountered him on the threshold. The lady sat by a blazing fire, with her back to a window through which the frosty sun of February was sending lovely prophecies of the summer. She was in a gorgeous dressing gown, her plentiful black hair twisted carelessly round her head. She was almost still a young woman, with a hardness of expression that belonged neither to youth nor age. She sat sideways to the door, so that without turning her head she must have seen the parson enter, but she did not move a visible hairsbreadth. She made no sign of greeting as he came in front of her, but a scowl dark as night settled on her low forehead and black eyebrows. Wingfold approached her with the air of a man who knew himself unwelcome but did not much mind—for he did not have to care about himself.