Craven Black started. “She has accepted you?” he demanded. “Not yet. She wants to think the matter over, and I have consented to let the thing rest where it is for a week. I take it as a good sign that she did not refuse me at once. Her hesitation implies a regard for me--” “Or a sense of duty toward some one else,” muttered Craven Black. “Curse that letter. If I had seen the girl, I would never have written it.” “What is it you say, father? I did not catch your words.” “They were not meant for your ears. So, Miss Wynde demands a week in which to consider your offer? It would be proper for you to refrain from going to Hawkhurst to-morrow. I’ll explain to her that you remained away from motives of delicacy.” “Which I shall not do,” said Rufus doggedly. “I shall go to Hawkhurst to-morrow evening. I will not leave the field clear to Lord Towyn. He’s an earl, rich, handsome, and intellectual, the very man to capture a girl’s heart, and if I know myself, I am not going to give him a clear field. Why, he loves her better than I do even, and I can only come out ahead of him by dint of sheer persistency. It’s a mystery to me how she refrained from saying No to me, when she can have Lord Towyn if she chooses. There is something behind her hesitation--some hidden cause--” “Which you will do well to let alone,” interposed his father. “‘Take the goods the gods provide’ without questioning.” Rufus was not satisfied, but concluded to act upon this advice. The next morning Craven Black attired himself with unusual care, and mounted his piebald horse, a new purchase, and set out alone, at a slow canter, for Hawkhurst. He knew that the heiress usually took a morning ride, attended only by her groom, and he knew in what direction these rides usually lay. It was impossible for him to demand a private interview with her at her home without exciting the suspicions and jealousy of Lady Wynde, and he was determined to see the heiress alone, and discover in what estimation she held him. He was also determined not to accept quietly the four thousand a year of the baronet’s widow until he knew, beyond all peradventure, that he could not obtain the seventy thousand per annum of the baronet’s daughter. He rode up to Hawkhurst lodge, slackening his speed, but not pausing. As it happened, a little boy, a son of the lodge keeper, was playing in the road, and Craven Black tossed him a sixpence, and demanded if Miss Wynde were out riding, and which way she had gone. “Dingle Farm way,” said the urchin, scrambling in the dust for the shining coin. “She’s been gone a long time.” “Who is with her?” asked Craven Black. “Jim, the groom--that be all.”