“They’ll kill him, sir,” said the Major, with energy. “He’ll not enjoy her money for long, mark my words; they’ll kill him in a year. I have only got this to say, sir,” continued the warrior, turning round upon Mr Temple, who had ventured a remark not bearing on the present subject to the Curate, “if this income-tax is going to be kept up without any compensation, I’ll emigrate—it’s the only thing that remains for honest Englishmen. After a life spent in the service of my country, I’ll be driven to a colony, sir, in my old age. It’s more than the country can bear, and what’s better, it’s more than the country _will_ bear. We’ll have a revolution, by Jove! that’s what will come of all this taxing and paying; it’s not to be borne, sir, in a land that calls itself free.” Whereupon politics came into possession of the elders of the party, and young Chesterfield resumed that tantalising account of the Meet which made the poor Curate sigh. Poor Mrs Clifford! she had but scant sympathy in those innumerable discussions, male and female, of which she was at present the subject, all in and about Summerhayes. CHAPTER III.—WHAT THE CHILDREN HAD TO SAY. Meanwhile little Loo, with another pair of big tears in her brown eyes, had been driven home in the wintry twilight over the frosty road, which rang to every stamp of her ponies’ heels in a way which would have excited the little thing into positive enjoyment of the exhilarating sounds and sensations of rapid motion, had things been as usual. As it was, she sat wrapped up in a fur cloak, with her little veil over her face, watching the great trees glide past in the darkening, and turning her wistful looks now and then to the young winterly moon, which had strayed like a lost child into the midst of a whole covey of clouds, still crimsoned with reflections from the sunset. Loo’s little heart ached so, and she was so steadfastly determined not to admit that it was aching, that she was almost glad to feel how chill her little feet were getting, and how benumbed the hand which was outside of the fur cloak. She kept her little stiff fingers exposed to the frosty breeze all the same, and was rather glad of that sensation of misery which gave her a little excuse to herself for feeling unhappy. As the tinges of crimson stole out of the clouds, and the sky grew so wistfully, coldly clear around the moon, Fontanel came in sight, with lights in all its windows, twinkling through the trees in the long avenue, now one gleam, now another, as the little carriage drove on. There first of all was the great nursery window blazing with firelight, where Loo meant to hold a little committee as soon as she got in, and where she could so well picture “all of them” in all their different occupations, populating all the corners of the familiar room. A little further on it was the window of mamma’s room, which lightened brightly out behind the bare branches of the great chestnut tree.