Michael was diverted at the idea of any one setting off on such an expedition with no better guide than her recollections of the ordnance map, and a groom who did not know any of the cross roads. ‘Barlow, our butler, warned me against the expedition,’ she added, when Michael had once or twice laughed at her explanations. ‘But I would not listen to him. And I only told him about Catcastle. I did not mention either of the other places.’ ‘No wonder he warned you,’ said Michael, silently noting, however, with approval, her independence of spirit. ‘Why, Catcastle alone is an excursion for a summer’s afternoon and evening.... And well worth the time it is,’ he added, half to himself. ‘But Deepdale! You evidently have not the faintest idea what kind of a place it is. It’s one of old Drayton’s “Helbecks,” eerie enough at the best of times, utterly impossible in weather like this. I suppose it was its “slender rill,” which attracted your fancy?’ ‘Yes, it was, because it was ‘“Last and least, but loveliest still.”’ ‘Ha, ha! Yes— ‘“Romantic Deepdale’s slender rill.” It will be roaring away at the bottom of the chasm, just now, in a manner a good deal more vigorous than romantic.’ ‘Well, I think it is very disappointing. I set off intending to see three places, and I have not seen even one.’ ‘But have got a good drenching in cold water instead. Don’t you think you might take it as an omen?’ said Michael, mockingly still, for he was determined not to allow himself to be interested in her; quite resolved not to yield to the pleasure of giving his full appreciation to the music of the round, fresh young voice, with its soft, southern accent, and unmistakable sincerity of tone. Michael was more of a connoisseur now, than he once had been, in such items. And as for the wonder which had just arisen in his mind—‘what is the charm about her?’—that he felt was a problem which it was quite outside of his province to consider. ‘As an omen!’ she repeated, sweetly. ‘Perhaps I might if I chose. I don’t know that I care much about the drenching.’ Michael scarcely heard her. He was thinking that he could not even call to-morrow upon her, to ask her how she did. Not that he was afraid of Thorsgarth, or of Otho; but simply because he had no part or lot in the Askam clan. He was separated from them for ever, by circumstances which could never—no, never be bridged over. Nothing could ever make it possible for him to have anything to do with them. And this girl by whose side he was now riding was Otho’s sister, and the present mistress of Thorsgarth. ‘I mean to see the places some other day,’ her voice continued; ‘and the drenching does not alter the fact that Barlow is an old man who potters about the house, and is rather slow about his work, and that I am a young woman, accustomed to take long rides.’ ‘Alone, and in a rough country like this, no doubt.’ ‘N—no. I must say I have never before ridden alone in a country like this.’