“Yes,” she repeated, “I am glad it’s gone. And now we can be friends. It has been so lonely for me at Thorpe ever since my father died, and I have so wanted to make friends with you; only that old carriage stood in the way. It was silly, no doubt, to be so much afraid, but then I am Scotch—and the Scotch you know are very superstitious,” she added with a smile. “Besides, ever since I can remember anything, I’ve been told that the old carriage meant mischief and trouble between Thorpe and Broadwater. It is true, no doubt, that an ancestor of mine did die in it, and that all sorts of ghastly rumours were current as to how he met his death. But nothing ever came of them, and it was commonly assumed that he died of heart disease; he had certainly been ailing for years before. Thank heaven! the very scene of the crime—if such it were—has been swept away at last. And it is pleasant, isn’t it? to recommence our life’s friendship here where it was wrecked. Though I fear we shan’t meet often as yet, for my husband that is to be lives abroad, till I can persuade him to give up his post and settle down with me for good in the dear old home. But you _will_ be my friends, won’t you, for always?” She held out her hand in pledge of her friendship. And we shall be friends, I think, “for always.” I like the old-fashioned phrase. Besides, it was her own. On the Racecourse at Bayview IT was Ronald’s birthday, and the day fixed for the Races at Bayview—an unlucky coincidence, for he always showed a keen spirit of enterprise on that particular morning. He was now fourteen, and looked a trifle older owing to his splendid physique. Even in the nursery visitors had christened him the “Infant Hercules.” A Viking he was in miniature, with clear blue eyes and short, crisp hair, carrying with him an atmosphere of suppressed fun that, dangerous as it might prove, was a certain guarantee against dulness or want of spirit. He had behaved himself beautifully for an entire month. But I distrusted him to-day. He had never seen the races, and had constantly signified his intention of doing so. So when his uncle said to him at breakfast, “You are not to go to the races; they are destructive of morality, especially to a boy of your age,” and Ronald winked at me across the table, I felt sure he intended to go. “No sir,” he said respectfully—“and I suppose you won’t go either. Of course they can’t do you any harm at your age; but they can’t do you any good.” “As it happens, Ronald, I shall go—just to make sure that you don’t. Besides, I think it a good principle that elderly people should be seen doing things which they forbid to their youngsters. Unquestioning obedience is a fine thing. It doesn’t follow that because I allow myself a cigar to quiet my nerves, therefore you should smoke who don’t know what a nerve means.” “No sir: of course it doesn’t”—and he winked again.