Marion remained in the drawing-room, only creeping close to the doorway, whence she could both hear and see all that took place. “I do hope it is all right,” said Lady Anne, earnestly. “Girls, Fred,” (for by this time the gentlemen had joined them,) “do you think it is he?” How could they tell, poor people? They only strained their eyes, vainly endeavouring to pierce the darkness, thick enough, as the country folks say, to be cut with a knife. A few servants’ heads appeared at the doors leading to the back regions; without which, of course, no domestic event can take place with correct decorum. The scene was really an effective one! The horse’s feet coming nearer and, nearer, the little group in the old oak-wainscoted hall, the pale face of the poor girl peeping out from the drawing-room doorway, thinking and feeling so much that none of those about her had the slightest conception of! What was to be the end of it? What was she about to hear? Five minutes more suspense, it seemed to her she could not have endured. There is but a step, according to a well-known adage, between the sublime and the ridiculous. Thus almost could Marion have expressed her feelings, when, as at last the horse drew near enough, for the rider to distinguish the anxious faces at the door, a voice out of the darkness reached them. It was Geoffrey’s. Loud and cheery it sounded. “Here I am, safe and sound! A nice adventure I’ve had. Imagine me, Brentshire born and bred, having lost my way in this horrible fog.” “Oh, I am so glad you’re all right,” cried Georgie, clapping her hands. And “We’ve been so frightened about you,” chimed in Margaret and her mother. The Squire too, and Captain Ferndale were most hearty in their congratulations. Likewise several members of the servants’ hall, and a few grooms and stable-boys who started up as if by magic, to lead away the naughty Coquette who stood there in the fog humble and subdued enough, with but small traces of the mischievous spirit which had distinguished her departure some seven hours previously. For the moment Mr. Baldwin was made quite a hero of, as he stood in the midst of the group, damp and muddy, but his fair face flushed and eager, as he related all that had fallen him and the beauty that had led him such a dance. Everyone was intensely relieved at the comfortably commonplace end to the adventure which had caused so much anxiety: everyone was most sincere and hearty in their congratulations. All but one. The voice which alone he cared to hear was silent. He looked round eagerly and enquiringly. “My wife, Marion,” he said, “is still here? I had better go to tell her I am all right.” “Oh, yes,” said Margaret, rather awkwardly, “I will go and tell her; but we have not let her know how uneasy we have been. She has not therefore been alarmed.”