"Yes; they had scent of them last night, but did not come up with any. To-night they hope for better luck, and Grant and a lot of the game watchers are going in quest." "It seems to me such a sad way of risking one's life," said Amy. "Property must be protected, Miss Neville. None of these fellows going out to-night go with the idea of losing their lives." "Perhaps not; but look at the fate of poor Susan's husband." "You mean the man who was shot? That is a bad spoke to put in the wheel of your argument, as his sad end has only urged on those who are left to annihilate such a set of ruffians. I have half made up my mind to join in the night expedition." "You!" exclaimed Amy hastily, "pray do not think of such a thing," and then fearing she had said too much--betrayed too deep an interest in his welfare, added, "every one would think it foolish!" "Would you?" he asked. "I? oh yes! of course I should, and besides, every one would be so anxious. What would Mrs. Linchmore say?" "My brother's wife's opinion is naught to me. Would _you_ be anxious, Miss Neville?" "I shall be anxious for all those who put their lives in jeopardy to-night," replied Amy, coldly, "And now as I see nothing of the postman, I think I will turn back." "Are you expecting a very important letter?" asked he, harshly, his jealousy creeping to the very tops of his fingers. Surely it must be some one she cared very much about, to induce a walk in such weather. "My mother is ill," replied Amy. The words were simple enough, but he fancied they were spoken in a reproachful tone; or otherwise his suspicions at an end, he was ready to accuse himself. Disarmed at once, he was too generous not to make the one atonement in his power. Springing on his horse, he exclaimed,-- "I will fetch the letter for you, Miss Neville," and was out of sight in a moment. Amy turned, and retraced her steps homewards, thinking he would soon overtake her, as it was past four o'clock, and the postman always reached the Park by half-past, so that he must of necessity be some way on his road when Charles would come up with him. But no, she walked on, reached the turnpike, and next the village; and then she loitered, went on slowly, and at length stopped and looked back. Still no signs of him. She went on more slowly still, through the village, and at last, delay as she would, reached the park gates; then an anxious, restless expression came over her face, she began to feel nervous, as she always did now when the chance of meeting or seeing Frances Strickland presented itself, with ever that one fear at her heart, that she should know or find out Charles Linchmore was doing her any act of kindness, however simple, and in revenge, tell him what she suspected and accused her of.