“If you had not been yourself so determined to have the nursing of Colonel Craven’s wound, my dearest Alethea,” responded she, sweetly, “the friendly desire of your heart might be in a better way of accomplishment. And, oh!”--she fanned herself and tittered--“I pity you, my poor Alethea, I do, indeed, when I think of those wasted attentions.” Lady Alethea had her feelings less under control than her cool-blooded friend. Her dark cheek empurpled, her full lips trembled. “My woman tells me,” proceeded Julia, “that the creature Craik, your brother’s man, hath no doubt of my lord Blantyre’s infatuation. ‘Pomona!’ he will call in his sleep. Pomona! ’Tis the wench’s name. I wish you joy of your sister-in-law, indeed.” Lady Alethea wheeled upon her with an eye of fire. “Need my brother wed the woman because he calls upon her name?” she mocked. “If I know my lord your brother, he might well wed her even because he need not,” smiled the other. “Now you are warned. ’Tis none of my concern, I thank my Providence! You will be saved a dairymaid at least.” Alethea’s wavering color, her flurried breath, bore witness to discomposure. “My Lord Blantyre,” pursued Lady Julia Majendie, relentlessly, “has ever taken pleasure in astonishing the world.” Lady Alethea clinched her hands. “Your father rules here; let him transport the slut!” “Nay,” said Julia. She placed her hand upon the heaving shoulder, and looked at her friend with a singular light in her pale yet brilliant eyes. “Do you think to break a man of a fancy by such measures? ’Twould be as good as forging the ring. Nay, my sweet, I can better help thee; ay, and give thee an hour’s sport besides.” And, as Alethea raised questioning eyes, Julia Majendie shook her silver-fair ringlets and laughed again. “Leave it to me,” quoth she. * * * * * “Will Mistress Pomona favor the Lady Julia Majendie with her company at the castle?” This was the message carried to the farmhouse by a mounted servant. He had a pillion behind him on the stout palfrey, and his orders were, he said, to bring Mistress Pomona back with him. Pomona came running out, with the harvest sunshine on her copper hair; her cheek was drained of blood. “Is my lord ill again?” she queried, breathlessly. The man shook his head; either he was dull or well drilled. Pomona mounted behind him without a second’s more delay, just as she was, bareheaded, her apron stained with apple juice, and her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. She had no thought for herself, and only spoke to bid the servant hurry. For a fortnight she had heard no word of her patient. In her simple heart she could conceive no other reason for being summoned now than because he needed her nursing.