“Very old and crazy--and you never know what she is going to do next, or what trick she will play you--and you ladies have been giving her a good deal of work lately.” “If you had lost your head, Owen!” exclaimed Miss Susan. “I hope I don’t often do that, miss,” he answered steadily. “If you had not had splendid nerve, we would all have been killed; why, we just shaved that wagon by a hair’s-breadth--that would have been a smash! We were going so fast.” He made no reply, but moved away to examine the machine. “Of course it would have been death, Aurea, and I don’t want to go like that!” “I should hope not, Susie.” “I don’t think I shall be afraid when it comes--I shall feel like a child whose nurse has called it away to go to sleep; but I’d prefer to go quietly, and not like some crushed insect.” Wynyard, as he worked at the car, could not help overhearing snatches of the conversation between aunt and niece; the latter said-- “The other day I was watching a flock of sheep in the meadows; the shepherd was with them, and they were all collected about him so trustfully. By his side was a man in a long blue linen coat. I said to myself, ‘There is death among them; poor innocents, they don’t know it.’ That’s like death and us--we never know who he has marked, or which of the flock is chosen.” “He nearly chose us to-day--but he changed his mind.” Aurea nodded, and then she went on-- “As to that odious motor, every one says Aunt Bella was shamefully taken in; but she would not listen to advice, she would buy it--she liked the photo. The car is medieval, and, what’s more, it’s unlucky,--it’s malignant! and you remember when we met the runaway horse and cart near Brodfield; I was sitting outside, and I declare it seemed to struggle to get into the middle of the road, and _meet_ them! you remember what Goethe said about the demoniac power of inanimate things?” “Now, my dear child, that’s nonsense!” expostulated Miss Susan. “I had a poor education, and I’ve never read a line of Goethe’s; if he wrote such rubbish, I had no loss!” “Well, you will allow that the car did its very best to destroy us to-day! And Mrs. Ramsay told me a man she knew recognised it by its number--and that it once ran over and killed a girl on a bicycle, and the people sent it to auction, where some one bought it for a song, passed it on to Aunt Bella, and here it is!” “The car will be all right now, Miss Susan,” announced the chauffeur, touching his cap; “there are no more hills, we are on the flat, and I can take you home safely; but I’m afraid she will have to go to Brodfield again to-morrow.” “Owen, do you believe in a motor being unlucky?” she asked, rising as she spoke. “I can’t say I do, miss; I don’t know much about them.” “What do you mean?--not know about motors!”