It was a soft and exquisite autumn afternoon. A delicate blue haze lay over the hills; the dense, dark woods were steeped in breathless silence, and the only sound that caught the ear, was the rattle of a reaping machine. As Lord Mulgrave and Mr. Usher turned down the long, straight road leading to Foley’s Corner, the earl was livid, his expression was set; evidently he was struggling in the grip of some vehement emotion, and the name of this disturbing element was “suspense.” Would it be true? or false? Would it be Joseline’s daughter? or some raw, uncouth stranger? Was it the wild-goose chase his wife had predicted, or the pursuit and capture of happiness? Oh, these next ten minutes would mean so much to him; he almost felt, this self-contained man, as if he were treading on the very boundaries of life and death. “Joseline’s daughter,” he was saying to himself. “Joseline’s daughter.” Mr. Usher, instinctively aware that his companion was in a highly strung and nervous condition, like the wise little man he was, held his peace; yes, even when they came within full view of the slated house, with its commonplace white face half hidden by a veil of crimson roses. “There she is!” he exclaimed abruptly. Yes; standing at the farthest side from them, attended by a terrier, feeding a multitude of bold and presumptuous poultry, stood Mary herself. “See, now! that’s all I have for ye,” she declared, as she tossed the last crumbs away, and a race ensued between a strong-limbed cochin and a dissipated-looking hen turkey. The bang of the gate caused her to turn her head, and she beheld, to her surprise, the “little grey man,” as she called him, and a fine, tall gentleman; and little did she guess how deeply he was agitated. “Here I am again, Mary!” announced Mr. Usher, with an off-hand air. “I thought, as we were just passing, we would look in and bid you the time of the day!” “And kindly welcome.” As she spoke she glanced up at the stranger; he was awfully white, and his eyes, as he looked into hers, seemed to pierce down to her very heart. “What ailed the poor gentleman?” she wondered; “was he taken bad?” Yes; he suddenly sat down on a bench outside the door, and, in a husky tone, asked for a “glass of water.” He really seemed faint and come over, and Mary hastened into the house, and presently returned with a brimming tin porringer. As he sipped it, the hand which held the porringer shook visibly, and Mr. Usher, in order to make a diversion, inquired-- “How is your mother to-day, Mary?” Lord Mulgrave started violently. “Deed then, your honour,” she replied, “she is in a way better. She is sitting up, and the pains are gone, but her head is bothersome.” From within a shrill old voice called out querulously: “What are you after? Who is it that’s talking to your ladyship?” “There it is!” she ejaculated. “The head of the poor thing is not right. Maybe”--hesitating--“you’ll come inside? or will the other gentleman?”