But Mr Compton was of great use to Margaret, little as she might have been disposed to allow it. If he did not come, Blanche was expecting him all the morning; every horseman, every gig, that passed down the high-road, might be the looked for guest. A broad gravel walk, at the end of the garden, commanded a view of the high-road, and thither Blanche would direct her steps, and loiter from breakfast till luncheon. "There! that _is_ Compton--I am certain, my dear, I know him a mile off; besides, his horse, he rides a bay--now does not he?" "I do not remember. Yes--I think it was a bay when you took me out to see it," said Margaret. "Well, then, unless he were riding the black--he has a very fine black horse, which he thinks would carry a lady," said Blanche looking sideways at her companion. "But that is not Mr. Compton--it is the butcher," said Margaret, with a feeling of satisfaction. "Oh! true--so it is. I am rather near-sighted. By the bye, I think he said he should be on duty to-day. Did he say to-day or to-morrow?" "I did not hear him," said Margaret. "I think it was to-day; I am sure I wish he never had any duty!" said Blanche with a sigh. "He has very little, I should think," said Margaret. "He gets out of every thing he can, you may be sure," said Blanche, "there--who is in that gig. Only Charles Hollingsworth, I do believe! The greatest bore in England; sometimes he pretends to be ill, and goes out hunting." "Who, Mr. Hollingsworth?" said Margaret, quite at a loss to know why he should take that trouble. "No--Compton--there he really is; let us go to the gate and meet him."