Stella stood watching until the big chestnut had borne its master out of sight, and down the lane, across the meadow; she caught one more glimpse of them as he rode through the ford, the water dashing up a silver shower of spray as high as the horse's head; then they vanished in the shadow of the woods which engirdled Wyndward Hall. But she still stood, lost in a dreamy reverie that was not thought, until her uncle's voice came floating down the garden, and with a start she ran up the path and stood breathless before him. The old man's placid face wore a slight look of anxiety, which faded instantly as he said: "Where have you been, Stella? I thought you had changed your mind, and flown back to Italy again. Mrs. Penfold is searching the meadows wildly." Stella laughed, as she put her arm round his neck. "You will not get rid of me so easily, uncle. No, I have only been down the pretty lane at the end of the garden. See, here are some flowers; are they not sweet? You shall have them for your table, and they shall stand within sight while you are at work." And she filled a vase with water, and arranged them. "But the flowers are not all the fruits of my wandering, uncle," she went on; "I have had an adventure." He was strolling up and down with his pipe in his mouth, his hands folded behind him. "An adventure!" "Yes," she nodded. "I have met--can you guess whom?" He smiled. "Mr. Fielding, the clergyman? It is his usual evening stroll." "No." "Perhaps an old lady in a lace shawl, with a fat pug by her side. If so, you have made an acquaintance with the great Mrs. Hamilton, the doctor's wife." "No, it was not anybody's wife, uncle--it was a man. You shan't guess any more; but what do you say to Lord Leycester?" "Lord Leycester!" said Mr. Etheridge. "I did not even know he was at home. Lord Leycester! And does my picture do him justice?" he asked, turning to her with a smile. She bent over the flowers, ashamed of the meaningless blush which rose to her face. "Yes, uncle, it is like him; but I could not see very distinctly you know. It was moonlight. He was riding a great, huge chestnut horse." "I know," he murmured, "and tearing along like a lost spirit. He flashed past like a meteor, I expect. No, you could not see him, and cannot judge of my portrait." "But he didn't flash past. He would have done, no doubt, but the chestnut declined. I think it was frightened by me, for I was standing on the bank." "And he stopped?" asked Mr. Etheridge. "It was a wonder; such a little thing even as the shying of his horse was sufficient to rouse the devil in him! He stopped!" "Because he was obliged," said Stella, in a low voice, a deep blush of maidenly shame rising to her face, as she remembers that it was she who had really stopped him. "And was he very furious?" "No; the proverbial lamb could not have been more quiet," said Stella, with a musical laugh. Mr. Etheridge laughed.