“Oh, you are Rita’s husband,” said Lady Brotherton, “little Rita! forgive me, I used to know her when she was a child. I have not realised the idea of Rita married.” “Then you must prepare yourself for a shock,” he said pleasantly. “For Rita has been married more than eight years.” “And there are children--of course?” “Four,” he said, with a smile of affectionate pride, “but my wife still looks like a little girl. You will not find so much difference in her appearance as there ought to be. I think Mr. Bonamy prefers to ignore the babies--and it’s not difficult to do so when you look at her. My father-in-law hoped you would come and dine with us to-night.” “Sir John is--rather an invalid----” “Not a bit--not a bit!” cried the old man, speaking for himself. “Yesh, yesh, letsh dine with Bonamy. Bonamy knowsh what’sh what.” “And we are a large party,” said Lady Brotherton deprecating. Here Lydia came behind her chair. “You must not think of me, dear Lady Brotherton.” “I have--my letters to write.” “Still letters to write, Liddy? My dear, you must have set up a most alarming correspondence. My young friend, Miss Joscelyn, Mr. Oliver.” The stranger made a slight movement in his chair, with a hurried breath, and a sudden startled widening of his eyes. It was a thing which he had often said to himself might happen any day, but years of serenity had almost driven it from his remembrance. As it was, the start was but momentary, and perhaps among men might have passed unnoticed. But Lady Brotherton caught it with her keen observation; and Lydia, herself, so excited and curious, saw it with additional excitement, but without any surprise. “I hope,” he said with a hesitation which did not sound unfriendly. “I hope we may see--Miss Joscelyn, too.” “I shall certainly bring her if you think you can really have us. How kind to think of it!” Lady Brotherton said. “But the Bonamys were always kind. I remember your wife’s mother, Mr. Oliver. She was the prettiest creature----” “I flatter myself you will think the same of her daughter,” he said, with a smile (“But if he thinks so much of his wife what business had he to stare so much at Liddy?” Lady Brotherton said after. “Liddy is a very pretty girl, and of course with young men one knows what one must expect--but a man with a family of children! I don’t think I quite like it.”). He spoke to the elder lady, but his eyes were on the younger--not so much admiringly as curiously, anxiously. Was it? could it be? A sort of brotherly impulse came over him. “I think I must have met--some of Miss Joscelyn’s family--from the Fell-country?--from the North of England?” he said, a rush of colour coming to his face. “Oh!” cried Lydia, paling as he reddened, “none of my family were ever abroad except one. Oh, I wonder if you can have met my brother. I am looking for him. I came to look for him. Harry Joscelyn? We have people of your name,” she added hastily, “in our village too.”