Garth had slept badly, a rare occurrence in his healthy, well-regulated life, and one that he was likely to remember for a long time with a sense of injury; and he was irritable in consequence, and in a bad humor with himself and all the world. Nothing would have pleased him better this morning than a downright quarrel with Dora; but Dora's perfect temper was invulnerable. "That only shows how men judge of girls' characters," she returned, with a little shrug and an amused smile. "Because Beattie is better looking, and has a nice complexion, she is endowed with a double portion of common sense. Oh, you men!" shaking her head and laughing in a pitying sort of way. "We men are tolerably hard in our judgment sometimes," returned Garth, looking at her with a gleam of anger in his eyes; but Dora took no notice of the ill-concealed sarcasm. It was so natural for him to feel sore, poor fellow, under the circumstances. She thought it would want a good deal of coaxing and _finesse_ to charm him into good humor again. She was very considerate and mindful of his comfort throughout the whole of breakfast-time, sweetening and preparing his coffee with extra care, and even bringing him some favorite sauce with her own hands; but her little overtures towards reconciliation were all rejected. Garth put the sauce away somewhat ostentatiously, and bore himself as though he had received an injury for which there could be no forgiveness. He stood aloof as the servants crowded round the door and the young mistress dispensed her parting injunction. When the luggage was on the carriage, and the Vicar had taken down his felt hat, he came forward and handed Dora into the carriage with much dignity. "I hope you will have a tolerably pleasant journey, and find the invalid better," he said very gravely; "please give my love to Beatrix." He had not spoken more than a dozen words throughout the whole of breakfast time, but he could not forbear this parting thrust. "And not to Flo! not to poor darling Flo!" returned Dora, looking; at him with reproachful sweetness. "Oh, you poor fellow, I am so sorry for you," her eyes seemed to say, as she waved her hand, and the carriage disappeared down the village. Garth threw his portmanteau into the dog-cart somewhat vehemently when it came up to the door. The old nurse put her hand on his arm with the familiarity of a trusted friend, and tried to detain him, but he was in no mood for her garrulity. "Dear Miss Dora, she is a blessing to us all, is she not, Mr. Clayton? such a pretty creature, and with such wise, womanly ways; for all the world like her mother," cried nurse, with the ready tear of old age trickling down her wrinkled cheek. "The others are dear girls, bless their sweet faces, but they are not equal to Miss Dora."