The Lady Letitia’s eyes flashed a curious look into Richard’s face. So the girl had chosen the saintly and heroic part. Well, she had wit, and her dear nephew was a delightful and amusing simpleton. Did he really think that women ever forgave such insinuations as she, the Lady Letitia, had flung at Miss Hardacre’s head? At all events it would be possible for her to remain another month or two in comfort at Rodenham, and it would be an interesting recreation to study the lad’s domestic ideals in the future. “Miss Hardacre must be a very magnanimous young lady,” she said, with inward irony. “Jilian has a generous heart, madam.” “Ah, Richard, the heart is everything in a woman.” “True, aunt, true.” “And you must tell me all about this romantic adventure of yours in the woods. You are quite the knight-errant, sir.” Richard blushed, and laughed good-humoredly. “I will tell you about it to-night,” he said. Jeffray excused himself from joining the Lady Letitia in her coach, asserting that he had a headache, and that a brisk ride would clear his brain. He mounted his mare, and followed the coach at a trot as it took the southward road through Pevensel. How strange and mobile are the moods of youth, April-hued, covered with the gold and purple of sunlight or of shadow! Richard Jeffray was almost wroth with his own heart that day as he rode through the woods and saw the great green downs cleave the distant blue. How was it that Miss Jilian’s face seemed less fair to him than it had yesterday? How was it that eyes of passionate blue outstarred those of simpering gray? How was it that a glowing face and a fleece of coal-black hair rose more brilliantly before him than did the cream and rose bloom of Miss Jilian’s countenance and her head of shimmering gold? What grievous flaw was there in the clear contour of his soul, that sentiments, fragrant yesterday, should leak forth in a night and melt into the air? Was he not the same Richard Jeffray, and Jilian the same artless and forgiving cousin? What had this forest child’s face to do with the romance? Surely it was Black Dan’s stick that had knocked the sanity out of Richard’s skull that he should be possessed by such fickle and yet haunting thoughts. A sturdy traveller was resting on the parapet of Rodenham bridge as the Lady Letitia’s coach swung over towards the gates of the park. The stranger, whose round red face topped a robust and somewhat corpulent body, was dressed in a suit of rusty brown. He wore a three-cocked-hat, rough shoes with dirty buckles, and the tail of his wig plaited into a club. What appeared to be a peddler’s pack was strapped over his broad shoulders, and on the parapet lay a thick oak stick and a red cloth bundle. The man’s keen and humorous eyes had watched the Lady Letitia’s coach swing by with a cynical twinkle. Richard had no sooner set his eyes on the man than he reined in on the bridge, and was out of the saddle with a flush on his boyish face.