“My dear Richard,” she said, rising, puffing herself out like an old hen, “I think we had better dismiss the subject till your temper has cooled in the morning. May I request you to ring for my maid?” Jeffray stalked to the bell rope, jerked it savagely, and bowed grandly to his aunt. “May I wish your ladyship a very good-night?” The dowager extended her hand, and suffered the lad to touch her gouty fingers crowded thick with rings. “My dear nephew,” she said, not unkindly, “you have a good heart, but—” “Well, madam?” “You will confess some day that your old aunt was a woman of sense and discretion. Marry the sweet Jilian, my dear. After all, it is no business of mine. But, my dear Richard, if you discover that you have embraced a bag of bones, a bundle of affectations, blame yourself and not me. Why, that Perkaby girl would make a better match; she has a body, an uncommon fine and handsome body, and old Perkaby can lay down guineas. But I see I weary your delicate sense of honor. Bon soir, mon cher Richard.” The clock in the turret had told ten next morning when Richard mounted his black mare and cantered off through the park to take the sandy road that wound through Pevensel. He was still feverishly ashamed of the unfortunate incidents of the previous night, and was as much disgusted with the Lady Letitia’s logic as with his own pusillanimous stupidity. Miss Hardacre had been slighted, insulted in his own house. Sir Peter, that kind but peppery old gentleman, had been driven to retreat in justifiable indignation. Richard Jeffray, sensitive and generous-hearted youth, still chafed and fumed under the indignity of it all. His duty lay clear before him as he rode through the waving wilds of Pevensel, and saw the sunlight chase the shadows over the dusky woods. Sir Peter and Mr. Lancelot were out with the hounds that morning, and had ridden to draw Squire Rokeley’s covers at Marvelscombe. Miss Hardacre was at home, however, so said the fat major-domo, grinning benignly over the apparent coincidence. Jeffray left his mare in the hands of a stable-boy, and, throwing his whip, gloves, and hat on a table in the hall, prepared to confront the sweet angel whom his aunt had tortured on the preceding night. Miss Jilian was sitting before her embroidery frame in the red parlor when the major-domo announced Richard Jeffray. Curious to relate, Miss Hardacre did not start up in amazement on catching the name from old Roger’s lips. So the dear lad had ridden over to protest his innocence and to make peace? Miss Jilian had expected it. “La, cousin,” she said, rising up with much stately rustlings of silk as the door closed on the major-domo, “I never thought to see you here.” Richard came forward blushing, and was even permitted to kiss Miss Hardacre’s hand. Certainly Miss Jilian drew her fingers away somewhat hastily, and carried her auburn head with proper coldness and dignity. “I have ridden over to ask your pardon, Jilian.” “Pardon, cousin?”