“How delightful!” exclaimed Annie Penstone. “Mr. Bradstone, I believe you had them brought here on purpose, just to make your picnic complete.” “No, I didn’t,” he said, abruptly. “I hate them. They are the worst thieves----” He stopped. “Bring some more wine,” he called to the butler. “Beware of the woman with the cut lip and the black eyes, Mr. Bradstone!” exclaimed Annie, laughingly. The butler filled their glasses, and in the midst of the general laughing and talking Bartley Bradstone was recovering his composure, and feeling pretty comfortable again, when he heard the sound of horse’s hoofs, and looking up, saw a man on horseback riding into the glade. The horse was a hunter of good character, and his rider was evidently so lost in thought that he had thrown the reins almost on the animal’s neck, and was perfectly indifferent to the course it was taking. All the picnic party stared at him, and Mary Penstone had just time to whisper to Olivia “What a handsome man!” when Bartley Bradstone sprang to his feet, and seized the horse’s loose rein. It was bad enough to have his grand picnic interrupted by ill-conditioned gypsies, but that an unknown rider should dare to intrude was simply intolerable. “Here, you, sir!” he exclaimed, angrily, “do you know you are trespassing?” The gentleman pulled up, and looked from the angry face below him to the rest of the party with a half-awakened expression. Then he drew the rein from Bartley Bradstone’s grasp, and, looking at him calmly, said: “I beg your pardon. I did not know I was trespassing.” “But you are!” insisted the giver of the feast. “This is private land, and you ought to know it! Confound it, sir, you’ve no right to ride over private property like this!” The stranger’s face flushed; but before he could speak Bertie sprang to his feet, and approached the two men. “Mr. Bradstone,” he said, “this gentleman is a friend of mine, and I can assure you that he had no desire to trespass----” Bartley Bradstone looked from one to the other with his characteristic expression of moody suspicion. “A friend of yours! Of course that makes a difference. I suppose it’s all right.” Olivia had risen, and came slowly toward them. The rest kept their seats. “Yes, this is a friend of mine--Mr. Faradeane,” said Bertie; and he laid his hand upon the bridle of the stranger’s horse. He looked from Bertie to Bartley Bradstone, and then at Olivia, and on her face his eyes seemed fixed. “Although a friend of Lord Granville, I am still a trespasser,” he said, “and I beg your pardon;” and he turned and rode off. Both Bartley Bradstone and Olivia turned upon Bertie. “Is he a friend of yours, Lord Granville?” demanded Bartley. Olivia said nothing, though her eyes were eloquent enough. The color rose to poor Bertie’s face. “It--it is Mr. Faradeane, of The Dell,” he stammered--fancy the Cherub stammering!--“I made his acquaintance the day his dog ran loose, Olivia. That’s all.” CHAPTER VII.