"But we have no reason to think ill of him. You remember what Uncle Oliver said--he had only been--a--a little racketty, like other young men," said Christabel, eagerly; and then, with a sudden embarrassment, reddening and laughing shyly, she added, "and indeed, Jessie, if it is any idea of danger to me that is troubling your wise head, there is no need for alarm. I am not made of such inflammable stuff--I am not the kind of girl to fall in love with the first comer." "With the first comer no! But when the Prince comes in a fairy tale, it matters little whether he come first or last. Fate has settled the whole story beforehand." "Fate has had nothing to say about me and Mr. Hamleigh. No, Jessie, believe me, there is no danger for _me_--and I don't suppose that you are going to fall in love with him?" "Because I am so old?" said Miss Bridgeman, still looking at the fire; "no, it would be rather ridiculous in a person of my age, plain and _passée_, to fall in love with your Alcibiades." "No, Jessie, but because you are too wise ever to be carried away by a sentimental fancy. But why do you speak of him so contemptuously? One would think you had taken a dislike to him. We ought at least to remember that he is my aunt's friend, and the son of some one she once dearly loved." "Once," repeated Jessie, softly; "does not once in that case mean always?" She was thinking of the Squire's commonplace good looks and portly figure, as represented in the big picture in the dining-room--the picture of a man in a red coat, leaning against the shoulder of a big bay horse, and with a pack of harriers fawning round him--and wondering whether the image of that dead man, whose son was in the house to-night, had not sometimes obtruded itself upon the calm plenitude of Mrs. Tregonell's domestic joys. "Don't be afraid that I shall forget my duty to your aunt or your aunt's guest, dear," she said suddenly, as if awaking from a reverie. "You and I will do all in our power to make him happy, and to shake him out of lazy London ways, and then, when we have patched up his health, and the moorland air has blown a little colour into his hollow cheeks, we will send him back to his clubs and his theatres, and forget all about him. And now, good-night, my Christabel," she said, looking at her watch; "see! it is close upon midnight--dreadful dissipation for Mount Royal, where half-past ten is the usual hour."