“Yes. Carriage horses--six of them. And here’s your dogcart. Sure you won’t have anything before you go?” “Nothing, thank you, sir,” replied Mr. Mowle. “Thank you for showing me over, Mr. Bradstone. It is a truly beautiful place, and fit for a king. Beautiful! I’ll see that your kind orders are properly executed, sir. Good-day.” Mr. Bartley Bradstone nodded. “Good-day,” he replied, and, his hands thrust into his pockets, he returned to the house to dress for dinner. Mr. Mowle climbed into the dogcart, and was driven rapidly away. At the end of the avenue he laid his hand upon the arm of the groom. “One moment, young man,” he said. The groom pulled up the impatient horse, and Mr. Mowle turned and looked back at the house. “And to think that I made it all!” he muttered. “You--you _beast_!” Then he said aloud, “Thank you; drive on now, please.” CHAPTER VI. THE FORTUNE-TELLER’S WARNING. As a rule it is only necessary to arrange a picnic to insure a wet day; but the day of Mr. Bradstone’s picnic proved an exception, and the morning was as clear and bright, and almost as warm, as a spring day in the sunny south. Mr. Bradstone had bestowed a great deal of thought on this little outing which he had planned for Olivia’s amusement--and his own advantage, of course--and when, but only the day before, she consented, in response to the squire’s pressure, to join the party, Mr. Bradstone redoubled his exertions. Lord Carfield had been asked; but, while accepting for Bertie, he had declined for himself. “My picnic days are over, Mr. Bradstone,” he said; “I have arrived at the period when cold pie and salad, when eaten in the posture absolutely unavoidable on these occasions, settle somewhere in the small of my back. But my son Bertie will be delighted, I am sure.” And he had spoken the truth. Bertie would have eaten cold pie or poison, if, by so doing, he could insure a few hours of Olivia’s society. The only other persons besides the Vanleys who had been asked were Mary and Annie Penstone, the two daughters of Sir William Penstone, whose estates lay about five miles from Hawkwood Grange. They were going to ride over to Glenmaire, the spot Mr. Bradstone had fixed upon for the luncheon, and Mr. Bradstone had arranged to drive the squire and Olivia to the rendezvous in a brand-new mail phæton, of which he was, not altogether without reason, exceedingly proud. Imagine his disappointment, then, when, having dashed up to the Grange door, he saw Olivia standing on the steps in her riding-habit, and Bertie just below her with his arm hooked in the bridles of his own and her horse. “I--I thought you were going to drive with me and your father, Miss Olivia?” he said, as she gave him her hand; and he muttered some almost inaudible response to Bertie’s cheery “Good-morning!” “Did I promise?” said Olivia. “I don’t think it was a distinct promise. I had to ride into Wainford this morning for some medicine for Bessie, and I kept my habit on.”