The faint color came to her cheek as she raised her eyes frankly to his, with a brighter, merrier smile than he had seen upon her lip before. "Nevertheless, I have not been very far away." "Have you been at Brosedale all the time--then how is it we have not met?" "I cannot tell; but I have been at Brosedale." Wilton threw the reins over his arm, and walked on beside her. "And are you all right again--recovered from your fright, and had sleep enough?" looking at her eagerly as he spoke, and noting the soft lustre of her eyes, the clear, pale cheek, the ripe red though not full lips, all so much fairer and fresher than when they parted. "Yes, I am quite well, and rested." A pause. She was apparently not inclined to talk more than she could help. "Do you know I quite expected to see you when I dined at Brosedale the other day--how was it you did not appear?" "What! did you expect to see me at dinner? Do you, then, think I am a much-disguised princess?" "Not so very much disguised," he replied, rather surprised at her tone. She raised her eyes fully to his, with a look half amused, half scornful. "You might dine many times at Brosedale without seeing me. Do you know that Sir Peter Fergusson was married before, and he has one son--a poor, crippled, often-suffering boy of thirteen, I think? Well, this boy can do very little to amuse himself; he does not care for study, but he loves pictures and drawing, so I was engaged about a year ago to be, not his governess--I am too ignorant--nor his companion--that would be a lady-in-waiting--but a _souffre douleur_ and teacher of drawing. I live with my poor boy, who is never shown to visitors; and we are not unhappy together." "I have heard of this son, but thought he was away; and you are always with him--very fortunate for him, but what a life for you!" "A far better life than many women have," she replied, softly, looking away from him and speaking as if to herself. "Still, it is an awful sacrifice!" She laughed with real, sweet merriment. "That depends on what has been sacrificed. And you," she went on, with the odd independence of manner which, had her voice been less soft and low, her bearing less gentle, might have seemed audacious, "do you like Glenraven? Have you found many lovely bits of scenery?" "I am charmed with the country; and, were I as fortunate as young Fergusson in a companion, I might even try my 'prentice hand at sketching." "If you will not try alone, neither will you even if Claude Lorraine came to cut your pencils." "I wish," said Wilton, "I had a chance of cutting yours." "But you have not," she returned, with a sort of indolent gravity not in the least coquettish, and a pause ensued. Wilton had seldom felt so adrift with any woman; perfectly frank and ready to talk, there was yet a strange half-cold indifference in her manner that did not belong to her fair youth, and upon which he dared not presume, though he chafed inwardly at the mask her frankness offered.