On the last day of September Isabel, just before dinner in her room, heard the trot of a couple of horses coming up the short drive, and on going downstairs almost ran against Hubert as he came from the corridor into the hall, as the servant ushered him in. The two stopped and looked at one another in silence. Hubert was flushed with hard riding and looked excited; Isabel's face showed nothing but pleasure and surprise. The servant too stopped, hesitating. Then Isabel put out her hand, smiling; and her voice was natural and controlled. "Why, Mr. Hubert," she said, "it is you! Come through this way"; and she nodded to the servant, who went forward and opened the door of the little parlour and stood back, as Isabel swept by him. When the door was closed, and the servant's footsteps had died away, Hubert, as he stood facing Isabel, spoke at last. "Mistress Isabel," he said almost imploringly, "what can I say to you? Your home has been wrecked; and partly through those wild and foolish words of mine; and you repay it by that act of kindness to my wife! I am come to ask your pardon, and to thank you. I only reached home last night." "Ah! that was nothing," said Isabel gently; "and as for the house----" "As for the house," he said, "I was not master of myself when I said those words that Grace told you of; and I entreat you to let me repair the damage." "No, no," she said, "Anthony has given orders; that will all be done." "But what can I do then?" he cried passionately; "if you but knew my sorrow--and--and--more than that, my----" Isabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in the face now; and he stopped abashed. "How is Grace, and Mercy?" she asked in perfectly even tones. "Oh! Isabel----" he began; and again she looked at him, and then went to the door. "I hear Mr. Buxton," she said; and steps came along through the hall; she opened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped abruptly, and the two men drew themselves up and seemed to stiffen, ever so slightly. A shade of aggressive contempt came on Hubert's keen brown face that towered up so near the low oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton's eyelids just drooped, and his features seemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: Isabel broke it. "You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?" she said almost entreatingly. He smiled kindly at her, but his face hardened again as he turned once more to Hubert. "I remember the gentleman perfectly," he said, "and he no doubt knows me, and why I cannot ask him to remain and dine with us." Hubert smiled brutally. "It is the old story of course, the Faith! I must ask your pardon, sir, for intruding. The difficulty never came into my mind. The truth is that I have lived so long now among Protestants that I had quite forgotten what Catholic charity is like!"