CHAPTER XVII. The events which immediately succeeded to those recorded in the last chapter I must pass over somewhat rapidly; for there was nothing that would much interest the reader in detail. Smeaton's letter to the Earl of Stair was written and despatched, and it may be sufficient to say that it never reached its destination. Sir John Newark, on the pretence of great courtesy and attention, hardly lost sight of his young guest for a moment, except during the times when he was giving Richard instruction in the use of the sword. Smeaton thus had no opportunity whatever of speaking in private with Emmeline, and the feelings of which the two were conscious kept them more reserved when in the presence of others than they had been before those feelings became known to them. The restraint was very painful to both, and day by day it became more irksome, till, with the impatience natural to youth--impatience that can never bide its time--Smeaton felt inclined to do anything rash to put an end to so oppressive a state of things. Richard, indeed, on the third day, afforded him some means of relief; for, when they were practising in one of the old halls with the doors shut, the lad took advantage of a momentary pause for repose, to say-- "Ay, Colonel, you don't talk to me about it; but I know very well what is going on in your thumper." "What do you call my thumper, Richard?" demanded Smeaton, with a smile. "Oh, folks call it 'heart,'" answered Richard, "though there is no meaning in that word, and a great deal in 'thumper'; but what I mean is, that I know very well you are dreaming all this time about our dear little Emmeline. My father takes care that you shall not whisper sugar to her. So, if you have anything to say, you had better tell me, and I will say it for you, because I am sent out with her every day to walk, like Shock, the lap-dog. I may as well talk to her about you as anything else; for she is thinking about you all the time, and falling into such brown studies that, if you ask her what o'clock it is, she looks up in your face, and says, 'Tuesday, I believe.'" "I wish to Heaven I could speak to her alone for about half-an-hour," observed Smeaton. "Ay, you cannot do that," returned Richard Newark; "and I must not help you; for, if my father were once to find out that I did, there would be a south-westerly gale and an end of all; but; if you will only tell me anything you want to say, I'll say it for you, word for word, upon my honour."