“Where are you going, Rex?” said Anna one gray morning when her father had set off in his carriage to the sessions, Mrs. Gascoigne with him, and she had observed that her brother had on his antigropelos, the utmost approach he possessed to a hunting equipment. “Going to see the hounds throw off at the Three Barns.” “Are you going to take Gwendolen?” said Anna, timidly. “She told you, did she?” “No, but I thought—Does papa know you are going?” “Not that I am aware of. I don’t suppose he would trouble himself about the matter.” “You are going to use his horse?” “He knows I do that whenever I can.” “Don’t let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex,” said Anna, whose fears gifted her with second-sight. “Why not?” said Rex, smiling rather provokingly. “Papa and mamma and aunt Davilow all wish her not to. They think it is not right for her.” “Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?” “Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes,” said Anna getting bolder by dint of a little anger. “Then she would not mind me,” said Rex, perversely making a joke of poor Anna’s anxiety. “Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy.” Here Anna burst into tears. “Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?” said Rex, a little impatient at being kept in this way, hat on and whip in hand. “She will not care for you one bit—I know she never will!” said the poor child in a sobbing whisper. She had lost all control of herself. Rex reddened and hurried away from her out of the hall door, leaving her to the miserable consciousness of having made herself disagreeable in vain. He did think of her words as he rode along; they had the unwelcomeness which all unfavorable fortune-telling has, even when laughed at; but he quickly explained them as springing from little Anna’s tenderness, and began to be sorry that he was obliged to come away without soothing her. Every other feeling on the subject, however, was quickly merged in a resistant belief to the contrary of hers, accompanied with a new determination to prove that he was right. This sort of certainty had just enough kinship to doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which an untouched security might have delayed.