It was a great temptation, for he had loved this girl secretly, madly, entirely, for two long years, and had suffered tortures of jealousy and hopelessness meanwhile. If she would only come to herself! He did not think she could be much injured, as she had not fallen from any great height, but still she did not open her eyes, and he was so totally inexperienced in fainting-fits, that her perfect immovability frightened him. He almost wished now that he had hailed the Handley people as they went by, although he was so jealously glad to have her all to himself. He wondered what he ought to do. He had heard of eau de Cologne being an excellent thing under the circumstance, but then he did not carry it about with him. He put his hand in his pocket mechanically as the idea occurred to him, and came upon his silver hunting-flask. His face brightened at once. He was sure he had also heard of brandy as a remedy, and what a merciful thing he had some by him. He supposed it was to be applied externally, like the eau de Cologne. Going down on his knees beside the insensible figure, he moistened his handkerchief with the spirit, and then bathed Lady Gwendolyn’s forehead and nostrils; and whether it was that brandy so applied really was a good thing, or that the fainting-fits was ending naturally, the girl’s white eyelids began to twinkle, and suddenly she looked up at him with a languidly mysterious smile. He stooped over her tenderly. “Are you better, Lady Gwendolyn?” “Have I been ill, then?” she asked. “Oh, dear, no!” he answered cheerfully, having always understood that you must keep your patient’s spirits up. “Just a little faintness, that was all. Nothing of the smallest consequence.” “How do you know that?” she returned. “I believe I have broken my leg.” “Oh! pray, don’t say that. You only fell from a very short distance, after all, and your feet were not doubled under you, or anything of that sort. You don’t feel any pain, do you?” Lady Gwendolyn shook her dark, disheveled head in a despondent way. “That is what I do feel, and I am sure I could not walk home.” “I never dreamed of your doing such a thing. If you don’t mind waiting here----” She interrupted him with a cry of dismay. “So close to Bates’ bull?” “I beg your pardon,” he said penitently, and then stood pulling at his mustache--a way he had when puzzled or annoyed. At last he added hesitatingly: “My house is close here, and if you would not mind my carrying you there, Mrs. Whittaker, the housekeeper, would be able to attend to you until the doctor came. I cannot think of any better plan at this moment; and, of course, I shall not enter the Hall until I have fetched Lady Teignmouth. It is ridiculous to trouble about conventionalities at such a time, Lady Gwendolyn, when the least neglect or delay might cause you to be a cripple for life. Are you not of my opinion?”