"Like a certain very bad spirit, I tremble and adore," said Wilton, laughing. "I have no doubt however, that you could charm my savage breast, or rouse my martial fire, with 'Auld Robin Gray' or 'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled.'" "No, I cannot," replied Miss Saville, haughtily. "Gertrude sings a little, and, I believe, can give you 'Auld Robin Gray,' if you ask her." "I shall try, at all events," said Wilton, amused at the slight annoyance of her tone, and rising to execute his purpose, when Helen, to his surprise, forestalled him by calling her sister to her very amiably, "Gertrude, will you sing for Colonel Wilton? I will play your accompaniment." So the desired ballad was sung, very correctly and quite in tune, but as if performed by some vocal instrument utterly devoid of human feeling. There was more music, and a good deal of talk about hunting arrangements; but Wilton was extremely pleased to be once more in the dog-cart, cigar in mouth, facing the fresh, brisk breeze, on their homeward way. The major, on the contrary, was in a far more happy frame of mind than at starting. He preferred hunting to shooting, and was highly pleased at the prospect of two days' hunting a week. "You are right, Moncrief," said Wilton, as they bowled away over the smooth, hard road; "these country dinners and family parties ought to be devoutly avoided by all sensible men." "I do not know," returned the mentor. "I think they are a very tolerable lot; and I fancy you found amusement enough with that slashing fine girl--you took very little notice of any one else, by Jove! I sometimes think I hate the lassies, they are such kittle cattle. Now, a woman that's 'wooed and married and a'' is safe, and may be just as pleasant." "I acknowledge the fact, but I object to the morality," returned Wilton, laughing. "You do? I was not aware of your regeneration." "Hallo!" cried Wilton. "There's some one in front there, just under the shadow of that beech-tree." "Yes, I thought I saw something. It's a child or a girl." Wilton, who was driving, did not answer, though he drew up suddenly, and made a movement as if to throw aside the plaid that wrapped his knees and spring down. "What are you about? are you daft, man?" "Nothing, nothing. I fancied--here, Byrne, look at this trace; it is loose." "Sure it's all right, sir." "Is it? Never mind." And Wilton, after casting an eager look up a pathway which led from the beech-tree into the grounds of Brosedale, gathered up the reins and drove rapidly home.