As they drove away Miss Panney immediately began to congratulate Dora on her return to her senses. She was in high good humor, "You ought to know, my dear, that if the loveliest woman in the world found herself stuck in a quagmire, it would be quite foolish for her to expect that the right sort of man would come and pull her out. In all probability it would be precisely the wrong sort of man who would do it. Consequently, it would be wise in her if she saw the right sort of man going by, not only to let him know that she was there, but to let him understand that she was worth pulling out. All women are born in a quagmire, and some are so anxious to get out that they take the first hand that is stretched toward them, and some, I am sorry to say, never get out at all. But they are the wise ones who do not leave it to chance, who shall be their liberators. Number yourself, my dear, among this happy class. I am so glad it is cool enough this morning for you to wear that lovely costume. It is as likely as not that by tomorrow it will be too warm. All these little things tell, my child, and I am glad to know that even the thermometer is your friend." "I had a letter from Miriam yesterday afternoon," said Dora, "in which she told me that her brother Ralph is engaged to Miss Drane." Miss Panney turned around like a weather vane struck by a squall. She seized the girl's arm with her bony fingers. "What!" she exclaimed. Ordinarily, the pain of the old lady's grasp would have made Dora wince, but she did not seem to feel it. Without the slightest sign of emotion in her face, she answered,-- "It is so. It happened while I was at Barport." "Stop!" cried Miss Panney, in a voice that made the driver pull up his horses with a jerk. In a moment she had stepped from the low carriage to the ground, and with quick strides was walking back to the Witton house. Dora turned in the seat, looked after her, and laughed. It was a sudden, bitter laugh, which the circumstances made derisive. Never before had Miss Panney's soul been so stung, burned, and lacerated, all at once, as by this laugh. But the sound had scarcely left Dora Bannister's lips when she bounded out of the carriage and ran after the old lady. Throwing her arms around her neck, she kissed her on the cheek. "I am awfully sorry I did that," she said, "and I beg your pardon. I don't mind the thing a bit, and won't you let me take you home in the carriage?" Dora might as well have embraced a milestone and talked to it, for the moment she could release herself, Miss Panney stalked away without a word. When she was again driving toward Cobhurst, Dora took from the front of the carriage a little hand mirror, and carefully arranged her hat, her feathers, her laces and ribbons. Then having satisfied herself that her features were in perfect order, she put back her glass. "I am not going to let any of them see," she said, "that I mind it in the least." CHAPTER XLI PANNEYOPATHY AND THE ASH-HOLE