“Well,” said Kate, smothering another yawn, “if you will not say anything that is amusing, or argue, or do anything I tell you, I shall go and look for Mrs Mitford. I don’t think it is quite proper to sit here by myself and talk to two gentlemen, especially as you let me do almost all the talking. And it is hot out of doors. I will go in till tea is ready; but, Mr John, you do not need to trouble yourself. There is not even a door to open. I shall go in at the window. Pray don’t come,” she added, in a lower tone, as he followed her across the lawn; “go and talk to _him_.” “I would much rather attend upon you, even though you don’t want me,” said John, with a half-audible sigh. “But I do want you,” said Kate, touched by his tone, “you are always so good to me; and I can’t bear _him_, with his chatter and talk. Do keep him away as long as you can--until we call you in to tea.” And then she gave the poor fellow a little nod of friendship, and a smile which dazzled him. He went away strengthened in his soul to be more than civil to Fred Huntley--poor Fred, upon whom this sunshine had not fallen--whom, indeed, she was inclined to avert her countenance from. He strolled about the garden with that unfortunate but unconscious being for half an hour, and then took him to see the church, which was a fine one, wondering in himself all the time when that summons would come to tea. Huntley seemed abstracted too, and it came natural to John to think that everybody must be moved as he himself was, and that it was absence from _her_ which made a cloud over his visitor. Their conversation strayed to a hundred other subjects as they strolled gravely up and down. They talked of the doings in Parliament, of the newspapers, of the county member, of the nature of the county architecture, of the difference in point of age between the chancel and the nave of Fanshawe Regis church, which was a question much discussed in antiquarian circles; but it was not until a full hour had elapsed that anything was said of Kate. At last,-- “By the by,” said Huntley, “what was that accident that happened to Miss Crediton? One hears different accounts of it all over the country, and she does not seem to know very well herself.” “It was not much,” said John, with rising colour. “Her horse ran away with her--he was making for the cliff, you know, at Winton, that overhangs the river--I beg your pardon, but the thought makes me sick--and I stopped him--that’s all.” “But how did you stop him?” “It does not greatly matter,” said John; “I did somehow. I don’t know much more about it than she does. And don’t speak of it to her, for heaven’s sake! She does not know what an awful danger she escaped.” “But surely she knows what happened?” said Fred. “Oh yes--she knows, and she does not know. I tell you I don’t know myself. Don’t say anything more about it, please.”