Aunt Letitia had dismounted from the coach that morning, and was hobbling up and down under the shadow of the Beacon Rock, while her fat horses steamed in the road. It was indeed an affecting sight to behold this goddess of powder and patches strutting with all the admirable anxiety of a “stage grandmother” on nature’s unartificial grass. The Lady Letitia was an evening, rather than a morning, star, for her physical frailties were unmasked by the sun. When Richard appeared riding over the heath, the dowager’s holy outburst of joy was an impressive sight to Peter Gladden and the lackey behind the coach. The old lady actually toddled forward to meet Richard, a ridiculous little straw hat perched on her powdered head, her ebony stick in one hand, a lace handkerchief in the other. “My dear Richard—my dear Richard—I am overcome with thankfulness at seeing you so hearty.” Jeffray, dismounting, kissed the Lady Letitia’s hand. He was touched by his aunt’s display of feeling, and it was not in him to remember a wrong. “I am not much the worse, aunt,” he said, smiling, “but for a bandaged head.” “It was such a shock to me last night, Richard,” quoth the lady, dabbing her eyes with her lace handkerchief, “for I said to myself, Richard: ‘perhaps the poor lad is dangerously hurt, and I cannot get to him before the morning.’ And I remembered that we had quarrelled the night before. Oh, my dear nephew, what a solemn thing is life; death is always near to us, and how inscrutable are the ways of the Almighty.” Richard, much moved by the old lady’s emotion, kissed her hand a second time with much unction. “I am sure, Aunt Letitia,” he said, simply, “I regret the rude words I spoke to you that night. I lost my temper, madam, and I ask your pardon. Dear Jilian and I were reconciled yesterday. I am sure you were mistaken in her, aunt. She has a noble nature, and bears no malice.” The Lady Letitia sniffed, suppressed her inclination towards cynicism, and answered her nephew with gracious resignation. “Let us say no more about it, dear Richard,” she said, “we are all mistaken at times, and not even the oldest among us are infallible. I can forget the past in thankfulness for your safe return; you must try and forgive your old aunt her whims.” Richard bowed and offered the Lady Letitia his arm. “God forbid, Richard,” she said, impressively, as they walked back towards the coach, Jeffray’s mare following like a dog at his heels, “God forbid that an old woman should trifle with the happiness of two young hearts. I wish you all joy, my dear nephew. You must try and persuade Miss Hardacre to love me.” Richard was quite conquered by the old lady’s tone of tender resignation. Perhaps Jilian had exaggerated his aunt’s asperities in the heat of her youthful self-pity. Richard was a peace-loving being, and he was glad that the quarrel promised to end in sunshine. “I am sure Miss Hardacre bears no malice,” he said.