'Thank you,' was Dr. Heriot's low reply, and the subject dropped; but Mildred, sick at heart, wondered if her irritability had been noticed. The pain of that dreadful blush seemed to scorch her still. What would he think of her? Her fears were not quite groundless. Dr. Heriot had noticed her sudden embarrassment, and had quickly changed the subject; but more than once that night he went over the brief conversation, and questioned himself as to the meaning of that strange sudden flush on Mildred Lambert's face. Most of the party were growing weary of their enforced stay, when Richard at last made his appearance in the glen. The moon had risen, the heavy autumnal damps had already saturated the place, the gipsy fire had burnt down to its last ember, and Etta sat shivering beside it in her red cloak. Richard's apologies were ample and sounded sincere, but he offered no explanation of his strange desertion. The wagonette was waiting, he said, and they had better lose no time in packing up. He thought even Polly must have had enough of her beloved cotton-mill. Polly made no answer; with Richard's reappearance her forced spirits seemed to collapse; she stood by listlessly while the others lifted the hampers and wraps; when the little cavalcade started she followed with a step so slow and flagging that Dr. Heriot paused more than once. 'Oh, Heartsease, how tired you are!' he said, pityingly, 'and I have not a hand to give you. Wrap yourself in my plaid, darling. I have seen you shiver more than once.' But she shook her head, and the plaid still trailed from her arm over the dewy grass. But Mildred noticed one thing. She saw, when the wagonette had started along the dark country road, that Dr. Heriot had taken the plaid and wrapped it round the weary girl; but she saw something else--she saw Polly steal timidly closer to the side of her betrothed husband, saw the kind arm open to receive her, and the little pale face suddenly lay itself down on it with a look of weariness and grief that went to her heart. CHAPTER XXVI 'IS THAT LETTER FOR ME, AUNT MILLY?' 'When dark days have come, and friendship Worthless seemed, and life in vain, That bright friendly smile has sent me Boldly to my task again; It has smiled on my successes, Raised me when my hopes were low, And by turns has looked upon me With all the loving eyes I know.' Adelaide Anne Procter. There was a long troubled talk between Mildred and Richard that night. Richard, who had borne his own disappointment so bravely, seemed utterly downcast on his brother's account. 'I would rather have had this happen to any of us but Roy,' he said, walking up and down Mildred's room that night. 'Hush, Richard, she will hear us,' returned Mildred, anxiously; and then he came and rested his elbow on the sill beside her, and they talked in a low subdued key, looking over the shadowy fells and the broad level of moonlight that lay beneath them.