Indeed, it seemed that, with one thing and another, Eagles' Nest was not altogether comfortable. Most of its inmates had some secret trouble upon them. And yet not twelve months ago they had entered upon it, all glee and joy, believing their days would henceforth be delightful as a second Paradise! The next afternoon but one, Saturday, brought William Stane. Alice chanced to be in the shrubbery, and met him. His countenance proved that he felt vexed, doubtful, ill at ease. Instead of the tender glance and smile that had been wont to greet Alice, he had a grave eye and knitted brow. The look angered her, even more than had the reported words of Sir Philip on the Thursday before. What precisely passed between them perhaps neither could afterwards clearly recall. He said something about how sorry he was that their happy intercourse should have been marred; Alice interrupted him with a sharp and haughty retort. William Stane retorted in his turn; and things were spoken between them, in the moment's ill-feeling, that could neither be unsaid nor qualified. Prejudiced by his father's account of the unsatisfactory interview with the major, he had come, naturally inclined to espouse his father's side; Alice on her part upheld their own cause. Very short indeed was the scene, but it was decisive. "I am sorry to have been so mistaken in you, Miss Raynor," he said, turning to depart. "No great harm has, however, been done." "None," returned Alice. "Fare you well." He raised his hat without speaking, and the echoes of his retreating footsteps died away in the shrubbery. Thus they parted. The fault being at least as much Alice's as his. Whether he had come to straighten matters, to repudiate the fiat Sir Philip had pronounced, Alice knew not, but she did not allow him the opportunity. If the possession of Eagles' Nest had taught nothing else to Major Raynor's children, it had certainly taught them to be arrogant. The world seemed made for them, and for them alone. Alice went upstairs humming a gay song, and passed into Daisy's room. She halted at the glass, glancing at her pretty face, at the brightness of the blue eyes, at the unusual flush on her cheeks. Frank's wife turned round. "You are gay this afternoon, Alice." "Gay as a fairy," replied Alice. "It is lovely out-of-doors. The sun's shining and the birds are singing." A few days went on. Charley was in a state of mental collapse. For, not one single minute of those days came and went but he was on the look-out for some dreadful shock, emanating from the enemy, Huddles. Each night, as darkness fell, he felt not at all thankful that the blow had kept off, concluding that the morrow would bring it. It seemed to him at times that its falling would bring relief, by ending his almost unbearable suspense. Alice continued gay; gay as a lark. Was it assumed, this gaiety, or was it real? Perhaps she herself did not know.