"Oh, I am sorry," murmured Adrienne, not knowing quite what to say; "I am glad you are helping her, poor thing, and I am thankful I wrote to her when I did. She replied so kindly, but she told me that complications had followed her brother's wound, and I heard from little Agatha that he was practically dying. When did you hear of it?" "He sent for me." Adrienne understood then that the note he had received the night before was the summons. After a moment's silence, Guy spoke again: "I was mistaken—he had wronged me—but he was innocent of the worst wrong I accredited him with. He has been his own worst enemy all his life, but he has gone now to his account. We need not judge him. You can go and see his sister if you like. I am very thankful you can stay on with your aunt, for I shall have to go over to America, and I may be there for a longish time." Adrienne felt dismay seize her. "I am always nervous when you are away," she said. "I never know what Mr. Bouverie may do. He haunts the Château in your absence—and Aunt Cecily gets more and more depressed and miserable." "I don't think her moods improve with my presence here," said Guy gravely; "Bouverie is nearly at the end of his tether. It would be better for all of us, if he took his last step." "What do you mean? You don't expect him to turn her out of the Château, do you? You would prevent that?" "Why should I? I have given, and given and given, and money in your aunt's hands is the same as putting it into a sieve! It runs through as soon as it gets there." "I don't understand either of you," Adrienne murmured. Then she left that subject. "Who is this Protestant parson?" she asked. "I have been longing to get to an English—or Protestant service, and Aunt Cecily said there was none within reach of us." "There is a Protestant family—descendants of the historian, D'Aubignay, who live about ten miles off. When they are here for the summer, they engage a chaplain to come out, and have service in a small chapel in their grounds. They have only just come into residence, or I would have told you of it. You may like to go over on Sundays." "I should very much. Are they nice people? Aunt Cecily has never mentioned them to me." "They are not her sort, but they would be delighted to have you at their services. There are no young people. Three elderly women and their brother. One is a widow, and it is she who has the money." They rode on through the country lanes, and then along a straight white road lined with poplars. It was Adrienne's turn to be silent now; she felt that with her uncles in Norway, and Guy in America, life might be difficult, and she had a haunting presentiment of evil to come. They came at length to a small village, in which Guy found the chaplain. He was a short, pleasant-faced man, who spoke English with the greatest ease. Guy dismounted, but did his business on the doorstep.