Miss Frere scented a battle like Job's war-horse. In spirit, that is; outwardly, nothing could show less signs of war. She was equal to Pitt, in her seeming careless apartness; the difference was, that with her it _was_ seeming, and with him reality. She lost not a word; she failed not to observe and regard every movement; she knew, without being seen to look, just what his play of feature and various expressions were; all the while she was calmly embroidering, or idly gazing out of the window, or skilfully playing chess with Mr. Dallas, whom she inevitably beat. Pitt, the while, his mother thought (and so thought the young lady herself), was provokingly careless of her attractions. He was going hither and thither; over the farm with his father; about the village, to see the changes and look up his old acquaintances; often, too, busy in his room where he had been wont to spend so many hours in the old time. He was graver than he used to be; with the manner of a man, and a thoughtful one; he showed not the least inclination to amuse himself with his mother's elegant visitor. Mrs. Dallas became as nearly fidgety as it was in her nature to be. 'What do you think of my young friend?' she asked Pitt when he had been a day or two at home. 'The lady? She is a very satisfactory person, to the eye.' 'To the eye!' 'It is only my eyes, you will remember, mother, that know anything about her.' 'That is your fault. Why do you let it be true?' 'Very naturally, I have had something else to think of.' 'But she is a guest in the house, and you really seem to forget it, Pitt. Can't you take her for a drive?' 'Where shall I take her?' '_Where?_ There is all the country to choose from. What a question! You never used to be at a loss, as I remember, in old times, when you went driving about with that little protegée of yours.' It was very imprudent of Mrs. Dallas, and she knew it immediately, and was beyond measure vexed with herself. But the subject was started. 'Poor Esther!' said Pitt thoughtfully. 'Mamma, I can't understand how you and my father should have lost sight of those people so.' 'They went out of our way.' 'But you sometimes go to New York.' 'Passing through, to Washington. I could not have time to search for people whose address I did not know.' 'I cannot understand why you did not know it. They were not the sort of people to be left to themselves. A hypochondriack father, who thought he was dying, and a young girl just growing up to need a kind mother's care, which she had not. I would give more than I can tell you to find her again!' 'What could you possibly do for her, Pitt? You, reading law and living in chambers in the Temple,--in London,--and she a grown young woman by this time, and living in New York. No doubt her father is quite equal to taking care of her.' Pitt made no reply. His mother repeated her question. 'What could you do for her?'