"She did not confide in me at all," said Barold. "Therein lay her attraction. One cannot submit to being 'confided in' by a strange young woman, however charming. This young lady's remarks were flavored solely with an adorably cool candor. She evidently did not desire to appeal to any emotion whatever." And as he leaned back in his seat, he still looked at the picturesque figure which they had passed, as if he would not have been sorry to see it turn its head toward him. In fact, it seemed that, notwithstanding his usual good fortune, Capt. Barold was doomed this morning to make remarks of a nature objectionable to his revered relation. On their way they passed Mr. Burmistone's mill, which was at work in all its vigor, with a whir and buzz of machinery, and a slight odor of oil in its surrounding atmosphere. "Ah!" said Mr. Barold, putting his single eyeglass into his eye, and scanning it after the manner of experts. "I did not think you had any thing of that sort here. Who put it up?" "The man's name," replied Lady Theobald severely, "is Burmistone." "Pretty good idea, isn't it?" remarked Barold. "Good for the place--and all that sort of thing." "To my mind," answered my lady, "it is the worst possible thing which could have happened." Mr. Francis Barold dropped his eyeglass dexterously, and at once lapsed into his normal condition--which was a condition by no means favorable to argument. "Think so?" he said slowly. "Pity, isn't it, under the circumstances?" And really there was nothing at all for her ladyship to do but preserve a lofty silence. She had scarcely recovered herself when they reached the station, and it was necessary to say farewell as complacently as possible. "We will hope to see you again before many days," she said with dignity, if not with warmth. Mr. Francis Barold was silent for a second, and a slightly reflective expression flitted across his face. "Thanks, yes," he said at last. "Certainly. It is easy to come down, and I should like to see more of Slowbridge." When the train had puffed in and out of the station, and Dobson was driving down High Street again, her ladyship's feelings rather got the better of her. "If Belinda Bassett is a wise woman," she remarked, "she will take my advice, and get rid of this young lady as soon as possible. It appears to me," she continued, with exalted piety, "that every well-trained English girl has reason to thank her Maker that she was born in a civilized land." "Perhaps," suggested Lucia softly, "Miss Octavia Bassett has had no one to train her at all; and it may be that--that she even feels it deeply." The feathers in her ladyship's bonnet trembled. "She does not feel it at all!" she announced. "She is an impertinent--minx!" CHAPTER VIII. SHARES LOOKING UP.