"And now remorse has proved too much for her; she resolves on writing you a letter expressing contrition for her past heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, and ink (in a three-volume novel the heroine has everything at her hand, even in the most unlikely places; there is never any fuss or scramble), and indites you a perfumed and coronetted note, which you will receive--to-morrow. There! Now, don't you feel better?" "Infinitely so." "What! still frowning? still in the lowest depths? I begin to doubt my power to comfort you." "I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," returns Sir Mark, gruffly, making a vicious blow with the whip at an unoffending and nearly lifeless fly. "Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest he might again incense the ponies, "I will jest no more. And don't despair. Perhaps--who knows?--she may grow fond of you in time." He laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something in it of dismal merriment. "If I could only tell you," he says, "if you only knew, you would understand what a double mockery are such words coming from your lips." His fingers close around the whip again. Again frightened, I hastily clutch his arm. "Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that dreadful whip again: remember the last time you did so we were nearly killed." "I wish we had been altogether so," mutters he, savagely. I stare at him in speechless surprise. Did that flask contain _much_ brandy? What on earth has happened to our careless, debonair Sir Mark? Even as I gaze in wonder, he turns his head and looks with some degree of shame into my widely-opened, astonished eyes. "Pardon me," he says, gently. "I don't know what has come to me to-day. I fail to understand myself. I doubt I am an ill-tempered brute, and have hardly any right even to hope for your forgiveness." But his manner has effectually checked my burst of eloquence, and we keep unbroken silence until we reach our destination. Here we find Marmaduke and Lady Blanche anxiously on the lookout for us; the others, tired of waiting, have wandered farther afield. Marmaduke is looking rather white and worried, I fancy. "What has kept you until this hour?" he asks, irritably, pulling out his watch. "Oh, how long you have been!" supplements Blanche. "We were beginning to wonder--almost to fear an accident had occurred. It is quite a relief to see you in the flesh." "You were very near not seeing us," I explain. "The ponies behaved very badly--ran away with us for half a mile or so--and frightened me so much that I fainted." "How distressing!" says Blanche, apparently much concerned. "How terrified you must have been! And so unpleasant, too, without a lady near to help you! You were able to resuscitate Mrs. Carrington, at all events." (To Sir Mark.) "Well, I don't suppose I would have been of much use without the brandy," replies he, coolly.