"You are welcome now, and I am going to turn, myself. It is pleasant to have met an intelligent lady; and I hope we often shall meet, that I may hear good tidings of my friends at Chandos. I was intimate with part of the family once, but a coolness arose between us, and I do not go there. Good-day." He turned and walked rapidly back. I struck into the nearest side walk I could find that would bring me to the open grounds, and nearly struck against Mr. Chandos. "Are you alone, Miss Hereford? I surely heard voices." "A gentleman met me, sir, and spoke." "A gentleman—in this remote part of the grounds!" he repeated, looking keenly at me, as a severe expression passed momentarily across his face. "Was it any one you knew?" "It was he who came into the broad walk, and whom you ordered out—the new tenant. He is gone now." "He! I fancied so," returned Mr. Chandos, the angry flush deepening. And it seemed almost as though he were angry with me. "I found out the walk by accident, sir, and I met him in it. He stopped and accosted me with several questions, which I thought very rude of him." "What did he ask you?" "He wished to know my name, who I was, and what I was doing at Chandos; but I did not satisfy him. He then inquired about the family, asking what members of it were at home." "And you told him?" "There was no need to tell him, sir, for he mentioned the names to me; yourself, Lady, and Mrs. Chandos." "Ethel! he mentioned her, did he! What did he call her?—Mrs. Chandos?" "He did not mention her by name, sir; he said 'daughter-in-law.'" I did not tell Mr. Chandos that the designation made an impression upon me, establishing the supposition that Mrs. Chandos _was_ a daughter-in-law. "And pray what did he call me?" "Harry Chandos." "Well, now mark me, Miss Hereford. That man accosted you to worm out what he could of our everyday life at home. His name is Barley—Edwin Barley. He is a bitter enemy of ours, and if he could pick up any scrap of news or trifle of fact that he could by possibility turn about and work so as to injure us, he would do it." "But how could he, sir?" I exclaimed, not understanding. "His suspicions are no doubt aroused that—that—I beg your pardon, Miss Hereford," he abruptly broke off, with the air of one who has said more than he meant to say. "These matters cannot interest you. You—you did not tell Mr. Barley what I imparted to you this morning, touching myself?" "Oh, Mr. Chandos, how can you ask the question? Did I not promise you to hold it sacred?" "Forgive me," he gently said. "Nay, I am sorry to have pained you." He had pained me in no slight degree, and the tears very nearly rose in my eyes. I would rather be beaten with rods than have my good faith slighted. I think Mr. Chandos saw something of this in my face.