But in another moment, either from Judy’s awkwardness, or from the gradual decay and final fracture of some cord, down came the whole shelf with a thundering noise, and the books were scattered hither and thither in confusion about the floor. Ethelwyn was gazing in dismay, and Judy had built up her face into a defiant look, when the door of the inner room opened and Mr Stoddart appeared. His brow was already flushed; but when he saw the condition of his idols, (for the lust of the eye had its full share in his regard for his books,) he broke out in a passion to which he could not have given way but for the weak state of his health. “How DARE you?” he said, with terrible emphasis on the word DARE. “Judy, I beg you will not again show yourself in my apartment till I send for you.” “And then,” said Judy, leaving the room, “I am not in the least likely to be otherwise engaged.” “I am very sorry, uncle,” began Miss Oldcastle. But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged the door behind him. So Miss Oldcastle and I were left standing together amid the ruins. She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She smiled in return. “I assure you,” she said, “uncle is not a bit like himself.” “And I fear in trying to rouse him, I have done him no good,—only made him more irritable,” I said. “But he will be sorry when he comes to himself, and so we must take the reversion of his repentance now, and think nothing more of the matter than if he had already said he was sorry. Besides, when books are in the case, I, for one, must not be too hard upon my unfortunate neighbour.” “Thank you, Mr Walton. I am so much obliged to you for taking my uncle’s part. He has been very good to me; and that dear Judy is provoking sometimes. I am afraid I help to spoil her; but you would hardly believe how good she really is, and what a comfort she is to me—with all her waywardness.” “I think I understand Judy,” I replied; “and I shall be more mistaken than I am willing to confess I have ever been before, if she does not turn out a very fine woman. The marvel to me is that with all the various influences amongst which she is placed here, she is not really, not seriously, spoiled after all. I assure you I have the greatest regard for, as well as confidence in, my friend Judy.” Ethelwyn—Miss Oldcastle, I should say—gave me such a pleased look that I was well recompensed—if justice should ever talk of recompense—for my defence of her niece. “Will you come with me?” she said; “for I fear our talk may continue to annoy Mr Stoddart. His hearing is acute at all times, and has been excessively so since his illness.” “I am at your service,” I returned, and followed her from the room. “Are you still as fond of the old quarry as you used to be, Miss Oldcastle?” I said, as we caught a glimpse of it from the window of a long passage we were going through. “I think I am. I go there most days. I have not been to-day, though. Would you like to go down?”