"Do those ladies she speaks of write beautiful poetry, like my mountains piece?" "I am not well versed in the writings of the ladies Miss Stukely mentions," Mr. Wycherly said cautiously, "but I fancy I am safe in saying that their work does not display the highest poetical genius, although it is doubtless very pleasing to their admirers." "Would you promise, if you was me?" "Certainly not," he answered vigorously. "Nothing would induce me to promise anything so absurd." "Absurd?" Jane-Anne’s voice was astonished; it was not an adjective which she would have applied to anything so serious. "Most ridiculous," Mr. Wycherly repeated. "She will be sorry, and she was very kind to me." "Never forget her kindness, repay it if ever you get the chance; but never promise anybody anything without fully understanding what you undertake." "Not even you, sir?" "Certainly not me, of all people—but I hope I should never ask you to make impossible promises." "Then I may go on loving Lord Byron?" "It seems to me that you ought to love him more if you think that he was sinful and unfortunate, and unhappy. It’s a poor sort of love that only cares for the good, the fortunate, the successful." "Christ was fond of unfortunate people," Jane-Anne said softly. Not altogether in vain had she read her New Testament. "Ah," said Mr. Wycherly, "that is a phase of His character certain of His followers are apt to forget." "I shall tell Miss Stukely that," Jane-Anne remarked perkily. "You most certainly will do nothing of the kind. You must not preach at people—it’s—it’s so ill-bred." Poor Jane-Anne looked very puzzled. "It’s a very funny thing," she said thoughtfully. "Nothing could be differenter than aunt and a real gentleman like you, and yet, sometimes, you both say the same sort of thing. Only, you call it ill-bred, and she’d call it the heighth of impidence." "You may take it that we both mean the same thing," said Mr. Wycherly; and his kind eyes twinkled. "Well, I don’t understand, and I know aunt’ll be raging because I’m not there to help to make the beds, but I’m happier. Here’s your handkerchief, sir, and many thanks." And Jane-Anne thrust a damp and sticky ball into Mr. Wycherly’s hand, quite unconscious of offence. When the door shut behind her, he dropped the handkerchief into his waste-paper basket, and he laughed. It was so like Montagu or Edmund. *CHAPTER XIV* *AN EXPERIMENT* "Canst play the fiddle?" asked the stranger. "I don’t know," quoth the Irishman, "but I’ll try if you’ll lend me the instrument." _Old Legend_.