And so, as suddenly as he had raised the objection, he withdrew it, to Arthur’s intense astonishment. Only one conclusion could he draw—that the Squire was indeed failing. And on that, with a hastily murmured word of thanks, he escaped from the room, hardly knowing whether he walked on his head or his feet. Lord, what a near thing it had been. And yet—no! The Squire—it must be that—was a failing man. He had no longer the strength or the stubbornness to hold to the course that his whims or his crabbed humor suggested. The danger might not have been so real or substantial, after all. Yet the relief was great, and coming on Miss Peacock, who was crossing the hall with a bowl in her hand, he seized her by the waist and whirled her round, bowl and all. “Hallo, Peacock! Hallo, Peacock!” he cried in the exuberance of his joy. “Where’s Jos?” “Let go!” she cried. “You’ll have it over! What’s come to you?” “Where’s Jos? Where’s Jos?” “Good gracious, how should I know? There, be quiet,” in pretended anger, though she liked it well enough. “What’s come to you? If you must know, she’s moping in her room. It’s where I find her most times when she’s not catching cold in the gardenhouse, and her father’s noticed it at last. He’s in a pretty stew about her, and if you ask me, I don’t think that she’s ever got over that night.” “I’ll cure her!” Arthur cried in a glow, and he gave Miss Peacock another twirl. But he had no opportunity of trying his cure that evening, for Jos, when she came downstairs, kept close to her father, and it was not until after breakfast on the morrow that he saw her go into the garden through the side-door, a relic of the older house that had once stood there. To frame it a stone arch of Tudor date had been filled in, and on either side of this, outlined in stone on the brick wall, was a pointed window of three lights. But Arthur’s thoughts as he followed Jos into the garden were far from such dry-as-dust matters. The reaction after fear, the assurance that all was well, intoxicated him, and in a glow of spirits that defied the November day he strode down the walk under boughs that half-bare, and over leaves that half-shrivelled, owned alike the touch of autumn. He caught sight of a skirt on the raised walk at the farther end of the garden and he made for it, bounding up the four steps with a light foot and a lover’s haste. A handsome young fellow, with a conquering air!