"I hardly feel it at all now," I answer, gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done but for you--first catching me as you did, and then dressing my hurt. But how shall I return you your handkerchief?" "May I not call to-morrow to see you are none the worse for your accident? It is a long week since last I was at Summerleas. Would I bore you all very much if I allowed myself there again soon?" "Not at all," I answered warmly, thinking of Dora; "the oftener you come the more we shall be pleased." "Would it please _you_ to see me often?" He watches me keenly as he asks this question. "Yes, of course it would," I answer, politely, feeling slightly surprised at his tone--_very_ slightly. "How long have you known me?" "Exactly a month yesterday," I exclaim, promptly; "it was on the 25th of August you first came to see us. I remember the date perfectly." "Do you?" with pleased surprise. "What impressed that uninteresting date upon your memory?" "Because it was on that day that Billy got home the new pigeons--such little beauties, all pure white. They were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring to his former words. "Oh! I suppose you would hardly care to remember anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes--not always--I envy Billy. And so it is really only a month since first I saw you? To_ me_ it seems a year--more than a year." "Ah! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correctness of an early opinion. "I knew you would soon grow tired of us. I said so from the beginning." "Did you?" in a curious tone. "Yes. It was not a clever guess to make, was it? Why, there is literally nothing to be done down here, unless one farms, or talks scandal of one's neighbor, or---" "Or goes nutting, and puts one's neck in danger," with a smile. "Surely there can be nothing tame about a place where such glorious exploits can be performed?" Then, changing his manner, "You have described Puxley very accurately, I must confess; and yet, strange as it may appear to you, your opinion was rashly formed, because as yet I am not tired of either it or--you." "And yet you find the time drag heavily?" "When spent at Strangemore--yes. Never when spent at Summerleas." I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search my brain eagerly for some more leading question that shall still further satisfy me on this point, but find nothing. Billy, who has been absent from us for some time, comes leisurely up to us. His presence recalls the hour. "We must be going now," I say, extending my hand; "it is getting late. Good-bye, Mr. Carrington--and thank you again very much," I added, somewhat shyly. "If you persist in thinking there is anything to be grateful for, give me my reward," he says, quickly, "by letting me walk with you to the boundary of the wood."