“No, no; that box of _yours_. Your daughter told us to examine it. And, from her manner, I believe that I am bound to do so.” “Bound to examine one of my boxes!” Bull Garnet never looked once that way, and Rufus took note of the strange avoidance; “my boxes are full of confidential papers; surely, sir, you have caught my daughterʼs—I mean to say, you are labouring under some hallucination.” “There are no papers in that box. The contents of it are metal. I have seen one article already through the broken cover, and shall not forget its shape. Beware; there have been strange things done in this neighbourhood. If you refuse to allay my suspicions, you confirm them.” The only answer he received was a powerful hand at the back of his neck, a sensation of being lifted with no increase of facilities for placid respiration; finally, a lateral movement of great rapidity through the air, and a loud sound as of a bang. Recovering reasonʼs prerogative, he found himself in a dahlia, whose blossoms, turned into heel–balls by the recent frost, were flapping round his countenance, and whose stake had gone through his waistcoat back, and grazed his coxendix, or something; he knows best what it was, as a medical man deeply interested. He had also a very unpleasant reminiscence of some such words as these, to which he had no responsive power—“You wonʼt take a hint like a gentleman; so take a hit like a blackguard.” Dr. Rufus Hutton was not the man to sit down quietly under an insult of any sort. At the moment he felt that brute force was irresistibly in the ascendant, and he was wonderfully calm about it. He shook himself, and smoothed his waistcoat, and tried the stretch of his garters; then never once looked toward the house, never shook his fist, nor frowned even. He walked off to his darling Polly as if nothing at all had happened; gave the man a shilling for holding her, after looking long for a sixpence; then mounted, and rode towards Nowelhurst Hall, showing no emotion whatever. Only Polly knew that burning tears of a brave manʼs sense of ignominy fell upon her glossy shoulder, and were fiercely wiped way. At the Hall he said nothing about it; never even mentioned that he had called at Garnetʼs cottage; but told Sir Cradock, like a true man, of Eoaʼs troubles, of her poor forlorn condition, and power of heart to feel it. He even contrived to interest the bereaved man, now so listless, in the young life thrown upon his care, as if by the breath of heaven. We are never so eloquent for another as when our own hearts are moved deeply by the feeling of wrong to ourselves; unless, indeed, we are very small, and that subject excludes all others.