“Thank heaven she is a lady,” thought Ralph’s mother. “I have no fears on any other score, for though so peculiar, he is thoroughly to be depended on as to essentials. And his taste is refined. She is sure to be pretty and pleasing, if no more. Most probably he has met her at the house of some of his learned friends. Sir Archibald Cunningham by-the-by! Ralph spent a week there last spring, just before the time he grew so quiet and depressed. How stupid of me not to have thought of it before! To be sure, Sir Archibald is a bachelor, so it can’t be a daughter—but he is sure to have nieces or cousins. And good family too. Yes, the Cunninghams may quite pass muster. Scotch too. Poor and proud no doubt. Oh, yes, the thing is as clear as daylight. Only I wonder why it has been so long coming to anything. He can’t have been afraid of my disapproval: I am sure I have always shown myself ready to agree to anything in reason! Ah, yes; a niece of Sir Archibald’s. I am glad I have satisfied myself about it.” And “Sir Archibald’s niece” became henceforth an institution in the good lady’s mind. At present she regarded her with feelings of prospective motherly affection, and began to consider which of the Severn jewels would be the most appropriate to offer to the young lady in token of welcome into that august family. “Something simple would be more suitable in the first place. Of course once she is married she will have her proper share of all, as the wife of the head of the family.” So Lady Severn amused herself: feeling most amiably disposed to the imaginary Miss Cunningham, whom before long she came to think of with very different feelings! But both her goodwill and resentment were kept to herself, poor lady, as Ralph exacted from her a promise that the little she knew of his mysteriously unfortunate love affairs should be kept to herself: and as he never became more communicative on the subject, Sir Archibald’s niece was anathematized in the private recesses of Lady Severn’s heart only. But this is anticipating. Sir Ralph left for London the morning after his conversation with his mother. He had to drive some distance cross-country before meeting the railway, which, as I said, had not yet penetrated into the pretty little county where the family had taken up their quarters for the summer. So he hired a post-chaise and got through the first twenty miles briskly enough. Then it became necessary to change horses, the roads being hilly, and expedition indispensable to his catching the Scotch express at the nearest point on its way south. Fresh horses, however, could not be provided in less than an hour’s time, quoth mine host of the “Peacock,” the wayside inn at which Ralph’s charioteer had thought proper to make the enquiry. The gentleman demurred. “I am obliged to catch the south express at Bexley Junction at four,” he said doubtfully.