To Harold Faradeane, too, his manner was quite friendly; and he had plenty of opportunity for showing it, for Faradeane came often to the Grange now. Sometimes he would walk in after breakfast, sometimes before they had finished. In the latter case, he would sit and talk with the squire until the meal was over; then go round the stables with him, or ride over to some farm on the estate. And Olivia noticed that whenever Harold Faradeane came her father’s face brightened, and lost something of its anxious look. In fact, the old man had conceived a great liking for the handsome, grave-voiced owner of The Dell, a liking that grew day by day into a warm friendship. To Olivia, Faradeane’s bearing was one of quiet, respectful courtesy. At first the color had risen to her face, and her heart had leaped at his approval; but though his appearance always sent a thrill through her, she learned to master her emotion, and greeted him as calmly as he greeted her. Sometimes he would be persuaded to walk over and dine with them, and on those occasions she put on one of her best frocks, and was more than usually careful with the thick coils of hair which nestled like a crown of silk on her shapely head. Often she stood before the glass when her maid had left her, and looked at herself with a strange, absent air, seeing not the reflection of her own face, but his, as she recalled it on the day he had bent over her and taken her in his arms. Then she would sigh heavily--and ah! so wistfully and wearily--and go down to the drawing-room to see his tall, patrician figure and handsome face beside the plebeian one of Bartley Bradstone, her future husband. All through the dinner Bartley Bradstone would covertly watch the two, even while he was apparently engaged with his plate or in talk with the squire; but his sharp, suspicious eyes never detected the slightest hint of any understanding between her and Faradeane. Always pleasant and courteous, sometimes witty and amusing, Faradeane never singled her out for any special attention of any kind; and Bartley Bradstone guessed nothing of the scene in the woods, had no idea of the effect upon Olivia which every word of Faradeane’s, every smile of his, produced. The days sped on without anything of consequence occurring, until Bartley Bradstone struck. One evening, just after the post had come in, Olivia went into the study to get a fresh supply of notepaper, and found the squire pacing up and down, with an ashen face and tightly-drawn lips. In his trembling hand was an open letter, which, at her entrance, he crushed up and thrust into his pocket. “Papa!” she said in a low, anxious voice, and, going up to him instantly, “what is the matter?” “Nothing, nothing, dear!” he said, and his voice sounded harsh and strained. “That is, I have had a troublesome letter.” “Let me see it, dear,” she said, putting her arms round his neck.