But look up yonder at the turret. With the sun glancing in his hair, Harry stands in the little battlemented gallery, and holds up a glass of sparkling wine, and bows and smiles, and drinks to them. Immediately both the sisters look at Cuthbert; and Cuthbert, with a gaiety he does not feel, takes off his hat, and returns the salutation with playful stateliness. His gesture cheers them, and they become again quite tremulously glad, when he calls to Harry to come down, and Harry nods in assent, and disappears upon the turret stair. It is true that the momentary smile flits away from Cuthbert’s face, and he becomes very serious. But they are looking for Harry--they do not see the deep regret and gravity which clouds the brow of his friend, who, within himself, says “Poor Harry!” with a heavy sigh. And Harry is now more excited than ever, and they are constantly calming and soothing him to keep him within bounds--trying to be gay themselves that his unreal gaiety may be less marked--and carefully avoiding everything which could possibly irritate his feelings. Poor Harry! some wistful eye is always following him, some solicitous voice constantly interposing to bring down to the ordinary quietness and moderation his unconscious extravagance--eyes which are afraid to meet--afraid to confide to each other, even by a glance, this new pain which Harry has brought upon them; for hitherto they have seen principally the remorse which followed his fall, and never before have beheld others conscious, of what so greatly humiliated themselves. Now the sneer and patronizing forbearance of Gilbert Allenders, who has too cool a head to be moved as Harry is, chafes Martha beyond endurance, and excites the gentle little Agnes to such a pitch of anger, that her hand clenches involuntarily, and she could almost strike him in a burst of weeping petulance. But the long, long painful hours pass away, and at last it is night. “It is nothing--it is nothing. Nobody thinks anything of this but us. We are always so anxious!” sobs Agnes, as she wakes in the middle of the night, and weeps; but Martha, who does not need to wake--who has never slept--suffers her heart to say nothing, but only prays, and tries to forget--tries to think of anything rather than Harry; and cannot weep, if she should try for ever. CHAPTER XIV. And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin, Then the bright kettle sings its matin song. Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong Blend as they rise. ROGERS. “WHO is that out there, leading the horse?” asked Agnes, with some anxiety.