"Petty village tattle. Rubbish, girl. Once more, no more of this. You're wrong, my dear. You mean well, but there's an ugly saying about good intentions which I will not repeat. Now listen to me. The coming down to Northwood has been a grave mistake, and when people blunder the sooner they get back to the right path the better. I have made up my mind to go back to London, and your words this morning have hastened it on. The sooner we are off the better." "No, Pierce," said the girl firmly. "Not to make you unhappy. You shall not take a step that you will repent to the last day of your life, dear. We must stay." "We must go. I have nothing to stay for here. Neither have you," he added, meaningly. "Pierce!" she cried, flushing. "Beg pardon, sir; Mr Leigh, sir." They had been too much intent upon their conversation to notice the approach of a dog-cart, or that the groom who drove it had pulled up on seeing them, and was now talking to them over the hedge. "Yes, what is it?" said Leigh, sharply. "Will you come over to the Manor directly, sir? Master's out, and Missus is in a trubble way. Our young lady, sir, Miss Wilton, took bad--fainting and nervous. You're to come at once." Jenny uttered a soft, low, long-drawn "Oh!" and, forgetful of everything he had said, Pierce Leigh rushed into the house, caught up his hat, and hurried out again, to mount into the dog-cart beside the driver. "Poor, dear old brother!" said Jenny, softly, as with her eyes half-blinded by the tears which rose, she watched the dog-cart driven away. "I don't believe he will go to town. Oh, how strangely things do come about. I wish I could have gone too." CHAPTER THREE. John Garstang stood with his back to the fire in his well furnished office in Bedford Row, tall, upright as a Life Guardsman, but slightly more prominent about what the fashionable tailor called his client's chest. He was fifty, but looked by artificial aid, forty. Scrupulously well-dressed, good-looking, and with a smile which won the confidence of clients, though his regular white teeth were false, and the high foreheaded look which some people would have called baldness was so beautifully ivory white and shiny that it helped to make him look what he was--a carefully polished man of the world. The clean japanned boxes about the room, all bearing clients' names, the many papers on the table, the waste-paper basket on the rich Turkey carpet, chock full of white fresh letters and envelopes, all told of business; and the handsome morocco-covered easy chairs suggested occupancy by moneyed clients who came there for long consultations, such as would tell up in a bill. John Garstang was a family solicitor, and he looked it; but he would have made a large fortune as a physician, for his presence and urbane manner would have done anyone good.