"Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by his manner: "I do not even see the faults you mention; and at all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have been." "I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat unsteadily. While I ponder on what these words may mean, while the first dim foreboding--suspicion--what you will--enters my mind, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and presently find ourselves at home. Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my hands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any time is delightful to me); but he disappoints my hopes by taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel; after which he goes instantly to Dora. When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of the day. CHAPTER VIII The following Monday, as I sit reading in the small parlor we dare to call our own, I am startled by Dora's abrupt entrance. Her outdoor garments are on her; her whole appearance is full of woe; suspicious circles surround her eyes. I rise fearfully and hasten towards her. Surely if anything worthy of condemnation has occurred it is impossible but I must have a prominent part in it. Has the irreproachable Dora committed a crime? Is she in disgrace with our domestic tyrant. "Dora, what has happened?" I ask, breathlessly. "Oh, nothing," returns Dora, reckless misery in her tone; "nothing to signify; only--Billy was right--I am quite positive he never cared for me--has not the slightest intention of proposing to me." "What? who?" I demand, in my charming definite way. "Who?" with impatient reproach. "Who is there in this miserable forgotten spot to propose to any one, except--Mr. Carrington?" "What have you heard, Dora?" I ask, light breaking in upon my obscurity.