We cantered for a mile or more, and the action of the Arab seemed very perfect. I made an observation to this effect, when, having left the running horse-keepers far behind us, we at last drew rein, and found ourselves alone. But still my remark received no answer, and I was determined to make her speak. ‘Am I intruding too much upon my privileges, Miss Anstruther, in venturing an opinion on the subject? Even a groom is sometimes permitted, you know, to pass his judgment on the new acquisitions to his mistress’s stables.’ ‘Don’t, Captain Norton; oh, pray, don’t.’ The words were uttered so hurriedly that I scarcely understood them; but when I looked into her face for an explanation, I saw that she was crying. Now I cannot bear to see a woman cry. They may do anything they like with me—tease, bully, even insult me—so long as they keep their eyes dry; but Miss Anstruther’s tears were falling fast upon the bosom of her riding-habit. I could not endure to think that she might be annoyed with me and my bantering; perhaps unhappy at having to live at Mushin-Bunda, for it is a very dull and uninteresting place; and I said the first thing which came into my head. ‘My dear girl, what _is_ the matter with you?’ I suppose the question was stupid or ill-timed, or perhaps I don’t understand the ways of women, for instead of doing Miss Anstruther any good, it changed her silent tears into such a storm of grief that I was quite alarmed. I have often seen Janie cry (indeed, my little woman is rather fond of working her hydraulics on very small occasions), and I have been the unwilling witness at times to a good many tears from various members of the fair sex; but never in all my life have I seen such a tempest of passionate rain as poured from Margaret Anstruther’s eyes this evening. She sobbed so violently and with so little restraint, that I began to be alarmed for the effect of her emotion, both on her horse and herself, and begged and entreated her to be calm, when all of a sudden, to my astonishment, the storm passed as quickly as it had arisen; and, except for her heaving bosom and sobbing breath, she was herself again. ‘What must you think of me?’ she inquired, turning her liquid eyes, still swimming in tears, upon my countenance. ‘I must have seemed so rude, so ungrateful to you both.’ ‘Think!’ I stammered, remembering all I have thought of her conduct during the last few days; ‘I don’t think anything, Miss Anstruther; only I am afraid you cannot be happy with us or here.’ ‘Oh, it is not that!’ she exclaimed earnestly. ‘Neither place nor people can make any difference to me. Dear Janie is everything that is kind; and you—you have been very patient with me—but nothing can lift off the humiliation, the degradation, that I feel in being here at all.’ ‘Degradation!’ I repeated, rather nettled at the term.