But, in reality, both Lally and her companion were looking after Lord Kemms’ retreating figure. From the grass-plot where they stood, a glimpse was to be obtained at intervals of the road, and at last Bessie relinquished her sham occupation, and stood gazing, with a sad, sad look in her face, after the owner of Kemms Park. All at once the object of so much attention turned round, and caught her in the very act. Bessie never professed to be more than human, and accordingly she said to Lally, angrily— “How can you be so bold, child, as to stare after gentlemen like that?” “’Oo ’taring too!” retorted Lally, indignantly; and, as she could not deny the truth of this statement, Bessie covered her confusion by a vigorous onslaught among the flowers. After a few seconds, however, she lifted her head again, and looked along the road once more, and as she looked she sighed; but that sigh was not breathed for the nobleman whose hair was like “Lally’s own!” CHAPTER XII. LIFE AT THE HOLLOW. Although, in the course of his conversation with Arthur Dudley, Mr. Black had intimated his intention of running up to town on the Monday following, and probably remaining there, he did not carry that desirable project into practice, but rather announced his intention of favouring Hertfordshire with his presence for some time longer. “That is to say, if Mrs. Dudley be not quite weary of us,” he added; which, of course, left Heather no resource but to entreat a prolongation of Mr. and Mrs. Black’s stay, which she did so kindly, that Mr. Black thanked her for her invitation. “Just as if you had given her a chance of not inviting you,” remarked Miss Hope, with a sneer. “True; I forgot I was not speaking to Miss Hope, whose frankness is notorious,” retorted Mr. Black; having given the lady which tit, for her tat, he strolled out, in excellent temper, on to the lawn. Spite of his dislike to the country—a dislike that was, perhaps, as genuine as anything about him (his vanity and selfishness excepted), he liked Berrie Down Hollow. It was an establishment which, notwithstanding some blemishes, in most respects met his views. On an income of a few hundreds a year, which had to be dragged out of the land, it is scarcely needful to say, Mr. Dudley, of Berrie Down, could not “do things” in the same style as Mr. Black, of Stanley Crescent, who reckoned his returns loosely by thousands. From cellar to garret, the house in Stanley Crescent proclaimed the existence either of unlimited means, or unlimited credit. From the hall to the farthest bedchamber, Berrie Down Hollow told its tale of shortness of money and of utter honesty. No bills were run in that pleasant Hertfordshire home; no duns ever came clamouring for payment through the gates flanked by pyracantha.