She was unconscious as yet of the fate of Colonel Mires or his servants. She knew that she had been on the eve of some dreadful accident. She had a shadowy sense of a violent crash, but nothing more. She had no wish to learn what had really happened. It was enough to know that she had been wrested from the villanous custody of Colonel Mires and by Hal--that was all she cared for, she sought for no more information: and Vivian, who was pretty well acquainted with the details, forbore, in her highly nervous state, to shock her by repeating them to her. On reaching the inn, Hal despatched the landlord and some men to the spot where Colonel Mires had met his fate; and upon making inquiries learned that at no great distance was the main coach-road, leading to Dorset, and there was a posting-house at which he could obtain a carriage and post-horses to return to Harleydale. He was anxious to quit the inn, for Flora’s sake, before the dead bodies were brought in. He submitted to her that it would be desirable to return to Harleydale without delay, and she readily assented to anything which he believed to be for the best. Leaving his tired steed, and having procured a seat for both in a country grocer’s light cart, they were driven over to the roadside inn named, and there, having partaken of some slight refreshment, set out in a post-chaise on their return to Harleydale. As yet Hal had not mentioned to Flora a word respecting the condition of her father. It was his intention, when her mind became more calm, to prepare her for the event which had taken place. By mutual consent it seemed that they banished all unpleasant matters, and reverted to that which was alone of absorbing interest to both--their love for each other. Even this subject stole by degrees only into the first place in their conversation; and then Hal honestly and honourably placed before her his true position, together with the views of the future which he entertained, and what probation he must necessarily pass before he might dare to look for the realisation of the hope first in his heart of hearts. In doing this he sketched the relation in which she stood to him, pointed out how wide apart their present stations were, and his own keen sense of the fact, so that, should she bend obedient to her father’s anxious wish to wed her to one of her own rank, he felt it would be unmanly in him to blame her, that it would indeed be ungenerous to think even harshly of her for taking the step; and if--notwithstanding her present impressions--she fancied that she would eventually be happier in uniting herself with the object of her father’s choice, it would be his duty, loving her so truly as he did, to stand from her path, that she might ensure happiness on earth, no matter what might be his own fate. Flora stayed his speech. She leaned her head upon his shoulder, and placed her hand in his--