"Never see them again," said Julia, with a wild look in her eye. "That man will haunt me wherever I go." "Will he, dear?" said Cynthia, merrily; "then the gallant knight shall not quite kill him, though I don't believe in haunting ghosts. Here they are." "Cynthia!" gasped Julia, with a cry of horror. "I don't mean the ogres, you little coward; I mean the gallant knights." "Why, we began to think we had missed you," cried Lord Artingale, who, with Mr Perry-Morton, met them at a turn of the road, the latter gentleman's patent leather shoes being a good deal splashed, in spite of the care with which he had picked his way. "Oh, Mr Perry-Morton," cried Cynthia, ignoring Artingale, and, with a mischievous light in her eye, addressing their artistic friend, "my sister has been so shamefully insulted by a great big man." "Who? where? my dear Miss Julia? Where is the scoundrel?" cried Perry-Morton, excitedly. "Just down the road a little way," said Cynthia. "I hope you will go and beat him well." "A big scoundrel of a fellow?" cried Mr Perry-Morton. "Yes, and he looks like a gipsy," said Cynthia, innocently. "He said something so insulting to my sister." "Hush, pray, Cynthia," cried the latter, faintly. "Oh, poor girl, she is going to faint. Miss Mallow, pray look up. I am here. Take my arm. Let me hasten with you home. This scoundrel shall be pursued, and brought to justice." "I am better now," said Julia, speaking more firmly. "No, thank you, Mr Perry-Morton, I can walk well enough." "Oh, I cannot leave you like this, dear Miss Julia," whispered Perry-Morton, while Cynthia's eyes were sparkling with malicious glee, as she turned them upon Artingale, whose face, however, startled her into seriousness, as he caught her arm, gripping it so hard that it gave her pain. "Tell me, Cynthia," he said, hoarsely, "what sort of a fellow was this?" "A big, gipsy-looking man, and there was a dirty-looking fellow with him," faltered the girl, for her lover's look alarmed her. "But stop, Harry; what are you going to do?" "Break his cursed neck--if I can," cried Artingale, in a low, angry growl. "No, no: don't go," she whispered, catching at him. "You may be hurt." "One of us will be," he said, hoarsely. "But, Harry, please!" She looked at him so appealingly that he took her hands in his. "Cynthia--my darling!" he whispered; and if they had been alone he would have caught her in his arms. But they were not alone, and bending down he whispered-- "You have made me so happy, but you would not have me be a cur. Take your sister home." Without another word he turned and started off down the lane at a trot, Cynthia watching him till he was out of sight. "Oh, Harry! If you are hurt!" she whispered to herself; and then, recalling her sister's trouble, she ran to her side, where Perry-Morton was making a pretence of affording support that was not required.