Then Eustace, deserted by his supports, resolved upon a bold venture-- nothing less than an advance upon the enemy's camp under cover of a flag of truce. The widow received him, but to the end of his life the youthful warrior was sure he would retain a very lively recollection of the interview, though a confused idea of what was said in the course thereof. As he remarked to his sister, Sophie, when reporting progress--"Sweet relative--future mamma-in-law? Blackguarded a fellow without a break for twenty-five minutes by the clock, and then, before he could get in a word edgeways, turfed him out into the street. Take my word for it, Sophonisba, my jewel, I wouldn't tackle that same ancient and formidable party again--no, not for all the V.C.s ever struck." Left to her retirement, the General's widow did two things, neither of which tended to her own peace of mind nor to the happiness of her daughter. She went in strongly for the Gospel according to Calvin, and she cherished and fed her grief for the loss of her idolised son. Her crapes were as heavy as in the first month of her widowhood, and no little awe did the stern and gloomy countenance, and the tall figure swathed in deepest black, inspire among the elect of the flock shepherded by the noted evangelical luminary whom Mrs Dorrien had elected to "sit under." She lived alone with her daughter, visiting, and being visited by, nobody, in order that she might more freely brood and indulge her grief. She suffered terrible anguish at times, yet looked upon her loss in the light of a judgment, and while admitting the justice of it as concerning herself, yet none the less luridly did her resentment burn against him whom, rightly or wrongly, she regarded as its instrument. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. "GIVE ME YOUR CONFIDENCE." It was Monday morning, and a bright and beautiful day. Three people sat at breakfast at Cranston Hall, the third being Frank Marsland, Roy's quondam purchaser. The wintry sun shone brilliantly in a cloudless sky, though without power, for the hard frost lay in silvery patches, wholly unaffected by his searching beams. "Do you feel like skating to-day, Marsland?" said Roland, breaking off from the discussion of a grand festival service they had attended at Wandsborough Church the night before, and as to the detail of which the guest had been seeking information from Olive. "I should think so. Ice good, eh, Dorrien?" "First-rate. I had it flooded last night, and it'll be like glass." A sound of voices in the hall, then the door opened without ceremony, and there entered Eustace and his youngest sister, each armed with a pair of skates. "Salve! All hail, Macbeth! Glorificamus, all round!" cried the former. "Roland, old chap, you don't seem quite the thing. In the words of the poet, you look decidedly `chippy.'" "Enough to make one, you ruffian, to have a cyclone like yourself bursting upon one's quiet breakfast-room without any warning."