“Poor Wilson was as much concerned as I was, Lot,” he said. “The Lady Letitia fibbed him into believing that he could present himself at Hardacre. I knew nothing of the matter till last night. Wilson is staying for a day at the Wheat Sheaf down in the village to offer you his apologies, or honorable satisfaction, should you require it.” Mr. Lot laughed good-humoredly, and reduced the cock of his sword. “I don’t want to quarrel with the poor devil, Richard,” he said. “You were both of you lambs sucking sour milk from the old dam above. I only desired, sir, to see justice done to my sister.” Richard, blushing guiltily, looked with some shyness at his cousin. “How is Jilian?” he asked. Lot’s face seized upon a most lugubrious expression. He shook his head, and looked with significant pathos at Richard. “Poor wench, she is in a terrible way—” “Lot, I am miserably distressed.” “She begged me to make no quarrel in the matter; swore it was no fault of yours; wanted me to promise that I would not lose my temper.” Richard listened, looking the embodiment of generous contrition. What an angel this sweet cousin of his was, to be sure! Of course Jilian had had little romances after she had come fresh from school. What girl had not? And had not he, Richard Jeffray, brought all this distress upon her? “Lot,” he said, “I am not worthy to kiss your sister’s hand. Do you think that she will forgive me?” Mr. Lancelot appeared profoundly serious, and glanced at his cousin under wrinkled brows. “Jill has a deuced kind heart, Dick,” he said. “Can I see her to-morrow?” “The lass has been much shaken, cousin; she kept her bed this morning.” Richard, looking a fine and honest fellow with his eyes bright in his flushed face, held out his hands to his cousin. “Be my friend, Lot,” he said, “and persuade Jilian to let me see her. I am a man of honor, sir, and your sister is a saint. Say I will ride over to-morrow in the hope that she will see me.” Mr. Lot studied his cousin keenly and smiled. The lad was honest and generous enough; there would be no need of bullying. “Egad, Richard,” he exclaimed, “you are a fine fellow, sir, and Lot Hardacre is with you. Poor Jill has a tender heart, cousin. I’ll try to get her to see you; I will. Sir Peter, too, is in a swearing rage, Richard, but I’ll get old Stott over and have the governor bled.” Richard, with tears in his eyes, gripped his cousin’s hand. “Thank you, Lot,” he said—“thank you. You are a friend in need—by Heaven, you are! As for my aunt, she shall leave Rodenham at once.” Mr. Hardacre clapped Jeffray on the shoulder. “That’s the tune, my buck,” he said, heartily; “be the master in your own house, Richard, and don’t be grandmothered by any old woman. Why, she would quarrel with you if you were for marrying St. Agnes, by gad, she would. Have it out with her, cousin; she’s been treating you like a foot-boy. I wouldn’t stand it, sir; I wouldn’t.”