A small grievance and one that I could not air, one that I must keep to myself. But it rose vividly before me. I was sure that it was not Wilmer, I was sure that it was the girl who shut me out and would have none of my company. Noon came without bringing Wilmer, and soon I guessed that Madam had played a trick on me. She intended to keep us apart. At that the anger which time and thought were cooling, flamed up afresh, and I longed to thwart her. Hitherto I had limited my exercise to a turn or two in front of the house. But I saw no reason why I should not go farther, and seek Wilmer in the fields where the blacks were picking. After dinner, accordingly, I chose my time and set out. She should not have it all her own way. If he would not come to me I would go to him. I had to cross the horse-paddock and the rails were up. They were heavy, I had only one arm, and bandaged as I was I could neither stoop freely, nor use my strength such as it was; for now I moved I found to my disgust that I was only half a man. I tried to shift the upper rail, but a pang that brought the sweat to my brow shot down my arm, and I desisted. The sun beat down upon me, the flies swarmed about my head, the din of the crickets filled my ears. I leant upon the rail, enraged at my helplessness but unable for the moment to do more. I was in that position when she found me. “You must come in,” she said. “Let me help you.” I suppose I looked ill for there was a tone in her voice that I had not heard before. “I wish to go on,” I said pettishly, turning from her that she might not see my face. “I am going to your father.” “You must come in,” she replied firmly. “The sun is too hot for you. You have never been as far as this.” “But I—” “You must do as I say,” she insisted. “Lean on me, if you please. Don’t you know that if you fell you might hurt yourself seriously?” “I am only a little—giddy,” I said, clinging to the rail. “Which—I don’t seem to see—the way?” I went back to the house on her arm—there was nothing else for it—but the only incident of the journey that I could recall was that at a certain place I stumbled, and she held me up. I tried to laugh. “A—a milksop! A weakling!” I said. She did not answer. When she reached the house she put me into my chair on the veranda, and disappeared. She returned with a glass of Madeira. “You must drink this,” she said, “you are not used to the sun”; and she stood over me until I had done so. Then when the giddiness had passed off and things were clear, “My father tells me,” she continued hurriedly, “that I must ask your pardon. He says that I ought to have taken it for granted that you would keep your word—that nine out of ten English officers—” “Would do so?” I said stiffly. “We are much obliged to him.” “And that men can tell very quickly when they can trust one another.” “As a rule they can.” “I will bring you some more paper,” she said meekly. “And I beg your pardon.”