“A plague on it, Julia,” said Lord Majendie, scratching his wig perplexedly and addressing his daughter in a loud whisper, “what ails the fellow? Does he wander, think you?” But Lady Alethea seemed to find a meaning in the sick man’s words, for she tossed her head once more, and answered sharply: “No, brother, I made no hue and cry for you, for ’tis not the first time it has been your pleasure to play truant and leave your loving friends all without news. How was I to know that you were more sorely hurt than Colonel Craven? He left you, he told us, standing by a tree, laughing at his pierced arm. You are not wont to come out of these affairs so ill.” That they were of the same blood could not be doubted, for it was the very same sneer that sat on both their mouths. “And pray, since we must bandy words,” she went on, gaining yet more boldness, “why did you thus keep me willfully in suspense?” “Because,” said he, sweetly, “I was too ill for thy nursing, my Alethea.” “I presume,” said she, “you had a nurse to your fancy?” Her black eyes rolled flashing on Pomona. The earl made no reply. “Let me assure your lordship,” put in his would-be host here, quickly, “that Colonel Craven is gone.” ”’Tis well, then,” replied Blantyre, ceremoniously, “and I will, with your permission, this very night avail myself of your offer of hospitality for a few days, but you will, I fear, have to send a litter for me. To sit in a coach is yet beyond me.” And while the good-natured nobleman instantly promised compliance, Lord Blantyre, waving away further discourse with a gesture, went on wearily: “Let me beg of you not to remain or keep these ladies in surroundings so little suited to their gentility. And the sooner, my good lord, you can dispatch that litter, the sooner shall you have the joy of my company. Farewell, Julia, for but a brief space. I trust that you and Colonel Craven enjoyed the chase the other day. We shall meet soon again, sister; pray you bear up against our present parting.” Both the ladies swept him such very fine courtesies that the homely kitchen seemed full of the rustle of silk. Lady Julia Majendie had a little fixed smile on her lips. The farm servants were all watching at the windows to see the great ladies get into their coach, to see it wheel about with the four horses clattering and curvetting. Pomona and Lord Blantyre were alone. She stood, her back against the wall, her head held high, not in pride, for Pomona knew no pride, but with the natural carriage of her perfect strength and balance. Her eyes looked forth, grieving yet untearful, her mouth was set into lines of patient endurance. He regarded her darkly. “I go this evening, Pomona.” “Ay, my lord.” The tall wooden clock ticked off a heavy minute. “Is my man here?” asked Lord Blantyre. “Bid him come to me, then, to help me to my room.”