"Lizzy Dene was present," I answered, giving him the truth. I had not liked that she should see me familiar with him—putting myself, as it were, on a level with Mr. Chandos; and in truth the word still slipped out at odd times in my shyness. Lizzy Dene might have commented upon the omission in the household: but this I did not say. Mr. Chandos turned to look at me. "Never mind who is present, I am not 'sir' to you. I beg you to recollect that, Miss Hereford. And now," he continued, taking my hand, "how am I to thank you?" "For what?" "For coming and looking for me. I might have lain until morning, inhaling the benefit of the night dews; or until that grey witch had 'come out again with a gun' and finished me." The last words, a repetition of Lizzy Dene's, were spoken in joke. I laughed. "You would soon have been found, without me, Mr. Chandos. Lizzy Dane was not many moments after me, and scores of others will be coming in before the night is over." "I don't know about the 'scores.' But see how you destroy the romance of the thing, Miss Hereford! I wish there _was_ a probability that the woman had gone into hiding in the groves of Chandos; I would soon have her hunted out of them." "Do you suppose it was one of the gipsies?" "I am at a loss for any supposition on the point," he replied. "I am unconscious of having given offence to any person or persons." "Do you think you are much injured?" "There are worse misfortunes in hospitals than the injury to my foot. I believe it to be nothing but a common sprain, although it has disabled me. The pain——" "That's great, I am sure." "Pretty well. I should not like you to experience it." That it was more than pretty well, I saw, for the drops were coursing down his face. The men soon came up with the garden-chair, and Mr. Chandos sent me on. He was laid on the sofa in the oak-parlour. Hill examined the foot and bound it up, one of the grooms having been despatched for a medical man. He arrived after dinner—which was taken in a scrambling sort of manner—a Mr. Dickenson, from the village, who was left with Mr. Chandos. At tea time, when I went in again, things looked comfortable. The surgeon had pronounced it to be but a sprain, and Mr. Chandos was on the sofa, quietly reading, a shaded lamp at his elbow. From his conversation with Hill, I gathered that the lady he had been inquiring after, Miss White, had taken a situation at a distance, and could not come to Chandos. "We have had another applicant after the place, Mr. Harry," observed Hill who was settling the cushion under his foot. And she proceeded to tell him the particulars of Mrs. Penn's visit. "Is she likely to suit?" "My lady thinks so. Mr. Harry,"—dropping her voice to a whisper, which she, no doubt, thought would be inaudible to me, busy with the tea-cups at the table ever so far-off—"she knows all about that past trouble." Mr. Chandos laid down his book and looked at her.