One last, long look was interchanged between them, and then Stella was dragged from the room by her father, who had pulled her hand through his arm, and who, as soon as he reached the courtyard, gave orders in an unconcerned voice that the side-saddle should be changed from Black Bess to a horse belonging to the inn, the loan of which he required for an hour or two. “I fear we shall be late for breakfast,” he said, turning to his daughter with an assumption of geniality, and speaking in a raised tone of voice so that he might be overheard by all within range. “Stella, you managed to get through your business in Grayling with wonderful celerity. I never expected to find you back here so soon. I am glad we found Mr. Pritchard none the worse for his unlucky accident.” Stella disdained to act up to his pretence of fatherly affection. It was nothing to her if the whole world knew that she loved Hilary Pritchard and that her father had come to part them. Sir Philip’s family pride was, from her point of view, equally incomprehensible and ridiculous. So she stood by his side, he detaining her hand in his arm with a grasp which, while it affected to be fatherly, was really vindictive and painful to bear, and which she endured with a set, white face, blazing eyes, and tightly compressed lips. In much the same fashion they rode away, she sitting straight upon her horse, staring before her, unheeding the friendly talk he affected to address to her. But Jim the hostler noticed that all the while he spoke Sir Philip’s fingers touched his daughter’s bridle-rein. “He’s a brute, that’s what _he_ is, for all his soft sawder,” was Jim’s comment. More than once during the ride home a mad longing seized Stella to escape from her father’s tyranny. But Sir Philip’s gray would easily have outstripped in speed the sorry hack upon which she was mounted, even if her father’s hand had not held her bridle. Every cruel and bitter taunt which his brain could conceive was hurled at her on their progress between the inn and the Chase. But no words could provoke a response from her. She was trying to remind herself that he was her father, and that even if she could not love him she must at least endeavor not to hate him. At the doors of the house she sprang from her horse and ran swiftly up the stairs to Lady Cranstoun’s room. Her stepmother was still in bed, sitting up, wrapped in a white woollen shawl, drinking her coffee. She had not quite recovered from the strain of the preceding day, and Dr. Graham had prescribed complete rest and freedom from all excitement. “I was wondering you had not come to say good-morning to me,” she said, “but Margaret said Sir Philip had locked you in your room. Was that true?” “Don’t let’s talk of him, dear,” returned the young girl, kissing her affectionately, and kneeling down at the bedside, caressing one of her hands. “Let’s try to think he doesn’t exist.”