'If I could only _know_,' says the other wearily; 'if I could be _sure_; it would be something to be _sure_ of anything! I am so tired of wondering!' 'I might go up to the Big House to find out for you,' suggests Peggy, magnanimously swallowing down her own acute distaste to this proposition, and speaking with a cheerful relish, as if she liked it. 'I could easily make an excuse to go up to the Big House; shall I go?' The capricious poppy colour has sprung back into Prue's thin cheek. 'Oh, if you would!' 'Of course I will,' replies Margaret gaily; 'it will be a nice walk for me; the garden makes me so lazy about walking. What time shall I go? morning or afternoon?' 'Oh, if you did not mind, morning is the soonest.' The words are scarcely out of her mouth before ting, tang! sharply sounds the hall-door bell. It is a bell that is hardly ever pulled in a forenoon, save by one person--a person who does not confine himself to the canonical hours of calling. In a moment there is a light in Prue's dimmed eyes, and Margaret's great blue ones beam for company. 'I think that I need not go up to the Big House, after all,' she says, with soft gladness. 'Shall I go away,' asks Prue, in a trembling whisper, 'and not come back for ten minutes or so? Perhaps he would think better of me if I did not seem so eager to meet him. Shall I?' 'I think I would not,' answers Peggy gently; 'I would sit quietly here, just as if nothing had happened. I think it would be more dignified.' They wait in silence. What a long time Sarah is in putting on a clean apron and turning down her sleeves! But he is admitted at last, has passed through the house, and is stepping across the turf towards them. _He!_ But what he? Alas for Prue! there are more he's than one in the world--more he's that call at uncanonical hours! 'Oh, Peggy!' she says, with almost a sob, 'it is only John Talbot! It is not he after all.' Peggy does not answer. Her feelings, though nearly as poignant as her sister's, are a good deal more complex. An indignation for which she can perfectly account, and an agitation for which she can give herself no reason at all, make her disappointment, though not far from being as bitter, less simple than Prue's. She advances to meet her visitor with an air that would make a more impudent heart than his sink. Over her face is written, though the words do not actually pass her lips, that least reassuring of salutations, 'To what are we indebted for the honour of this visit?' A woman's anger is seldom wholly reasonable, and on this occasion Margaret's indignation against Talbot is called forth not only by his being himself, but by his not being Freddy Ducane, which is certainly more his misfortune than his fault. After all, he is, for a villain, not possessed of very much effrontery, since the austerity of so young an eye strikes him dumb.