He passed through the narrow street, deserted now--for the sound of the children’s voices was wafted from the village school--and turned into a wide country-lane that led to the left of the cottages. After sauntering a few yards, he came in sight of a wood inclosed by a high wall, while through the branches of the trees glimpses of a gray-stone house were visible. Mr. Crosbie’s steps grew slower and slower as he approached this wall, and he walked past it in a very desultory fashion. Presently he reached a large iron gate through which a wide even drive was seen. Evidently Mr. Crosbie had no acquaintance with this drive, for he passed on, still down hill, till he came to a tiny spring trickling and babbling by the side of the road; and here he paused. He was out of the sun’s glare now, and felt almost cool; to his right hand stretched the path he had just traversed, to his left lay two lanes, one leading through the distant fields, the other turning abruptly. He thought for an instant, then turned in the direction of the latter, and just before him stood three cottages at equal distances from each other. He passed the first, and with a quick nervous hand unlatched the gate of the second, and went up the sweet-smelling garden. The door was ajar, and as he knocked a faint, weak voice answered: “Come in.” Stuart Crosbie pushed open the door and entered the cottage. A woman was lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows, the whiteness of which rivaled her face in purity. She had a woolen shawl round her shoulders, although the heat was so oppressive, and looked very ill. Stuart bent over her. “How are you to-day, Mrs. Morris?” he asked, gently. “Much about the same, thank you, Mr. Stuart. Were you wanting Reuben, sir?” “Yes. I did rather want to see him,” replied the young man a little hesitatingly. “I am anxious to hear about that poaching affair the other night.” “It weren’t nothing at all, sir,” Mrs. Morris said, in her low, weak voice. “Reuben was out nigh most of the night, but couldn’t see a soul.” “Well, I’m glad of it,” observed Mr. Crosbie warmly, “for between ourselves, Mrs. Morris, I confess my sympathies go entirely with the poachers.” Mrs. Morris smiled faintly. “Ah, you ain’t Sir Hubert, sir! He don’t hold them views. You would give the whole village welcome to the birds; but he’s different.” “Yes, we are rather opposed in some ways,” remarked the young squire, dryly. “Is it true, Mrs. Morris, that Sir Hubert and Lady Coningham are coming home?’ “Yes, sir; Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, come to see me yesterday, and she says her ladyship is expected next week. Ah, I am glad I shall see her again! I began to fear I should die before she came back.” “You must cheer up,” said Stuart, gently, “and not talk about dying. Why are you here all alone? Where is Margery?”