Three days more and I shall be away--out of temptation, out of Paradise, alone in the world, with my life's work before me. What matter! Banish such thoughts--away with them! Away with that sweet, sad face, with its proud lips and sorrowing eyes! What are these to my Prince and I, whilst we fly across the moorland, over hedges and fences, with the earth skimming beneath and the wind-swept sky clear and bright above! Live the present! Bury the past! Welcome the future! Regrets and haunting memories are the plagues of the devil. The Black Prince and I will have none of them. Ah! that was a wild ride. The wonder to me now is that we ever reached home safely. But we did, and when we got there I led him into the stable myself, and took the bit out of his mouth, and the saddle from his back. I watched him munch his corn, and daintily thrust his nose into the bucket of chilled water, and when I turned away and walked into the house there was a lump in my throat. A gentleman was waiting to see me in my study, I was told--and without asking his name, and with very little curiosity, I crossed the hall and entered the room. Then I gave a great start, and my fingers closed upon my riding-whip, for upon the hearthrug, hat in hand, stood my Uncle Rupert. Had he not been Maud's father I should have taken him by the neck and thrown him from the house. As it was, I stood waiting with the door in my hand and an angry sparkle in my eyes. "You are not pleased to see me, Mr. Arbuthnot," he began, nervously. "I did not expect that you would be. But my daughter tells me that she has scarcely thanked you for your gallant behaviour the other night, and, as her father, I trusted that I might be permitted to come and offer you my most heartfelt thanks." And this was my Uncle Rupert! this tall, thin man with the eager eyes and nervous manner, and sad, sweet tone. For, though I hated him, I could not help noticing that I had never heard a man's voice more pleasant to listen to. Whence had come the affected manners and thinly-veiled snobbism of my cousin Francis? Not from his father. "I fear that Miss Devereux, in her very natural terror, has exaggerated the service I was fortunate enough to be able to render her," I answered icily. "I trust that she has recovered from the shock." "Quite, thank you. Mr. Arbuthnot, there was another reason which brought me here. All through my life--which has been a most unhappy one--I have constantly been troubled with the reflection that though innocently (that you will not believe, but no matter), I was the cause of poor Herbert's--your father's trouble. If I could render his son even the slightest service it would be a great happiness to me. You are going to London, I hear. You know no one there, and you have no friends. Could you not make my house your home? You will not take the name of Devereux, I hear, but Mr. Arbuthnot would always be a welcome and an honoured guest."