As he spoke he lifted her out of the saddle, and the next moment she was clasped tight in the fellow's arms--the dove quite at the mercy of the hawk. PART TWO, CHAPTER TEN. AT KILBY. Winter came in early that year, but none the less fiercely. Cyril and his young wife stayed on, Sage eagerly agreeing to her aunt's proposal that the visit should be prolonged, and consequently the rabbits on the farm had a very hard time, especially when the snow came, and their footprints could be tracked with ease. John Berry brought his young wife and children, to the great delight of the Churchwarden, of whom they made a perfect slave, for he was never weary of petting them. Lord Artingale came over once, and won golden opinions of Mrs Portlock by what she called his condescension; and as to his nominee at the next election, the Churchwarden was ready to support him through thick and thin for the interest he took in Rue Berry's little children. Harry Artingale was not the only gentleman visitor who found his way to the farm, for Frank Mallow came one evening soon after the Berrys had arrived, and that night, when Sage had gone up with her sister to her room, Rue suddenly burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. "Why, Rue, darling," exclaimed her sister, "what is it?" "Nothing, nothing at all," she cried hastily, wiping her eyes and cheering up. "Only one of my foolish fits, Sagey. There, there, good night." "But you are ill," said Sage, anxiously. "Ill, dear? No; it is only a little hysterical feeling that I have sometimes," and wishing her sister good night in the most affectionate manner, Sage left her bending over the little bedstead where her children slept, and as Sage closed the door she saw Rue sinking down upon her knees. It was not a pleasant time, for Cyril had grown short and sulky whenever Frank came, and seeing this, Frank laughed, and became unpleasantly attentive to his brother's young wife. "If he won't be polite to you, Sage, I will," he cried. "I want you to have pleasant memories of me when I am gone." "But are you going soon?" she asked. "Oh, yes, I shall go soon," he replied; "I'm tired of this narrow country. Ah, Portlock, you should come with me." "No, no," exclaimed Mrs Portlock, excitedly. "My husband could not think of such a thing." The Churchwarden, who was puffing away at his pipe when this was said, gave Frank Mallow a peculiar look, to which that gentleman nodded and stroked his dark beard. "Well, I don't know, mother," he said; "farming's getting very bad here, and those who emigrate seem to do very well." "Oh, no, Joseph; I don't believe they do," cried Mrs Portlock, plaiting away at her apron, so as to produce the effect since become fashionable under the name of kilting. "Why, look at young Luke Ross," said the Churchwarden; "he's emigrated to London, and they say getting on wonderful." "Home's quite good enough for me, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, "and I wouldn't go on any consideration."