We found Marmaduke Heath in a less morbid state of mind than we had expected. The die having been cast--the time given him by Sir Massingberd for his return and so-called reconciliation with that worthy having already elapsed without any action on the part of his uncle, the effect of that "Captain Swing"-like epistle was slowly wearing off. No one ever revived the matter in his presence, nor, as we have seen, was he permitted even to write upon the subject. Still, he knew that I had been lately communicated with concerning it--for at first the blow had fallen on its object with such force and fulness that those about him had really not liked to let me know the extent of the mischief I might have committed--and he imagined that I had now come up in mere friendly sorrow to cheer and comfort him. As he came out into the dark street on that December evening to give me loving welcome, fresh from that awful procession-scene, I positively looked with terror to left and right, lest some cloaked figure, whom yet we both should recognize, might reach forth an iron arm, and tear him away. It was I who was morbid and unstrung, and not my friend; he strove, I knew, to appear to the best advantage, in good humour and high spirits, in order that I might have less to reproach myself with. "My dear old Peter" cried he, laughing, "how glad I am to see your honest face. Have you brought me any verbal message from my charming uncle, or are you only his deputy-postman? _How_ is he--_how_ is he?" I could see, in spite of his light way, that he was curious to have this interrogation answered; but what was I to say? "I don't know whether he's well or ill," returned I, carelessly, as I stepped into the hall. "But how is Mr. Gerard and Miss----" "Here is 'Miss,'" returned a sweet voice, blithe as a bird's; "she is excellently well, Peter, thank you. But what a white face _you_ have got! If that is the gift of country air there is certainly no such cause for regretting our absence from the Dovecot, about which Marmaduke is always so solicitous." "'Marmaduke' to his face, now!" thought I. I could not prevent my heart from sinking a little, in spite of the lifebuoy of friendship. But I answered gallantly, "There is no air that can wither _your_ roses, Miss Lucy, for the summer is never over where you are."