You will have discovered, dear reader--I am always inclined to like my reader--that Mrs Daveney was a woman likely to be a little jealous of her own authority. It was fortunate that her husband was content to _share_ his with her, otherwise there would have been struggles for the real and the fancied prerogative, in which the high-spirited woman would have surely conquered. She was certain that Eleanor had opened her mind to Frankfort on the subject of Ormsby's devotion to Marion, and she felt angry at being, as she considered, forestalled in her prerogative; and Eleanor, you know, had some compunction in the matter too. You will have discovered, too, that between the mother and elder daughter there was not that tenderness, of manner at least, which existed between Mrs Daveney and Marion. Eleanor had been born during the illness of that best-beloved being, who had entered the world when dangers beset his parents--poor little quiet thing! she was set aside at once, that this fragile creature might, if possible, be saved. He died; and then there came, as consolation, the bright-eyed, rosy-lipped Marion. But with the father, the gentle, dark-haired Eleanor had made her steady way, and kept it. She grew up, to use a trite simile, like a violet in the shade. No one thought anything of that colourless oval face, those dove-like eyes, that intelligent brow shaded by heavy curls. There was no promise in the thin, small figure; the gentle voice was seldom heard; the smile not often seen; and it was with considerable satisfaction that Mrs Daveney consented to let the delicate, drooping girl accompany her father on a visit to the Governor's wife at Cape Town. The said Governor's wife, Lady Annabel Fairfax, was a relative of Mr Daveney's. She had loved him in her youth, but he had never known _that_; and now she welcomed his gentle daughter with that deep tenderness which pure-hearted women feel for the children of those on whom their first affections have been bestowed. But we shall have to refer to this part of Eleanor's history by-and-by. While she rides, her mother is pacing the verandah with Mr Trail. Good Mr Trail, he is soothing that ruffled spirit, deprecating its jealousy of authority in trifles; he analyses Mrs Daveney's motives, he sifts them like wheat before her very face, and he condenses, in the "half-hour's talk," almost the history of her moral life since her marriage. He is a very old friend; he has been associated with her in her husband's district for years; he has seen her children grow up, and he loves them. He loves Eleanor best, though: we naturally feel most for those we pity. And Eleanor--she is riding side-by-side with Major Frankfort. Ah, take heed, Frankfort--she has, as yet, no thought of thee!