He was a gaunt, snuffy, untidy old man, in a dilapidated wig, but his eyes were shrewd and kindly behind the large, gold-rimmed spectacles. He peered at Pomona, pale and beautiful. Lady Julia had evidently inherited her father’s short sight, for she, too, was staring through an eyeglass. She carried it on a gold chain, and when she lifted it to one eye her small fair face took an air of indescribable impertinence. She interrupted father and friend, coming to the front with a scarcely perceptible movement of pointed elbows: “Bring us instantly to Lord Blantyre.” “This way an it please you,” said Pomona. She led them in, and there in the great kitchen, well within the glow from the deep hearth, propped on patchwork cushions, wrapped in blue homespun, lay the invalid. The ladies were picking their steps across the flags with a great parade of lifting silken skirts; the worthy old scholar, Lord Majendie, was following, with an expression of benign, childlike interest, but all three seemed struck by the same amazement, almost amounting to consternation. Lord Blantyre lifted his pallid, black-bearded countenance and looked at them with a gaze of uncompromising ill-humor. “Good Lord, brother!” exclaimed the little lady with the ringlets, at last. She made a faint lurch against Lady Julia. “If your sisterly feelings are too much for you, and you are contemplating a swoon, pray be kind enough to accomplish it elsewhere, Alethea,” said Lord Blantyre. “Oh, my excellent young friend! Oh, my dear lord! Tut! tut! tut! I should hardly have known you,” ejaculated the old man. “You must tell us how this has come about; we must get you home. Tush! you must not speak. I see you are yet but weakly. My good young woman, this has been a terrible business--nay, I have no doubt he does your nursing infinite credit, but why not have let us know? Tut! tut!” Before Pomona could speak, and, indeed, as she had no excuse to offer, the words were slow in coming, her patient intervened, curtly. “I would not permit her to tell you,” quoth he. She glanced at him, startled; his eyes were averted. “Oh, my lord, this is cruel hearing for us,” minced Julia. She might have spoken to the wall for all the effect her smile and ogle produced on him. She turned her glass upon Pomona, and ran it up and down her till the poor girl felt herself so coarse, so common, so ugly, that she could have wished herself dead. “Pray, Lord Majendie,” said Blantyre, “is Colonel Craven yet with you?” Lady Alethea tossed her head, flushed and shot a look, half defiance, half fear, at her brother. He propped himself up on his elbow, turned and surveyed her with a sneering smile. “How pale and wasted art thou, my fair Alethea! Hast been nursing the wounded hero, and pining with his pangs? Or is’t, perchance, all fond fraternal anguish concerning my unworthy self? Oh, see you, I know what an uproar you made about me all over the countryside, what a hue and cry for the lost brother.”