Here they were met by Lord Carthew’s valet, and Lady Northborough’s maid, lent by the Countess to her daughter-in-law for the honeymoon on account of her exceptional tact and cleverness. Lady Carthew’s bright eyes, glancing about beyond these persons, sought for Stephen Lee, and perceived him at length by the third-class portion of the train. Dispatching Lord Carthew for a book, she beckoned to Stephen, who, flushed and confused, came at her bidding. “I shall take you on as my groom,” she said. “You shall leave the Chase, and enter my service.” “Yes, my lady.” “We’re a bit late for the train, and can’t talk here,” she said, her restless eyes roving about the platform. “When the train stops at Peterstone, come to my carriage.” “Yes, my lady.” Stephen retired as Lord Carthew returned, book in hand, and assisted his bride into a luxurious saloon which he had reserved for their use on the journey. “Was not that the keeper who shot poor Hilary I saw you speaking to just now?” he asked, carelessly, as the train began to start, while he was still arranging on the table the baskets of flowers which had been prepared by the station-master as a compliment to Sir Philip’s daughter. “Yes; Stephen Lee. He taught me to ride, and I want him in my service now as a groom. He’s in this train.” Lord Carthew did not speak for a few moments. He was, indeed, too much surprised at first to make any remark. “Is it by your wish that the man is coming by this train?” he asked, at length, in a constrained voice. She nodded. “Yes. I have engaged him, and I thought he might as well come along now.” “The fact is,” he said, after another pause, “I have a not unnatural prejudice against the fellow who was clumsy enough to have wounded my friend. I own, too, I don’t like the appearance of the man. There is a surly, gypsy-like look about him, which sets me against him.” She turned and looked at him critically, a mocking light shining in her eyes. “You don’t like his looks?” she repeated. “Well, in _my_ opinion, he’s a lot better looking than _you_ are.” Lord Carthew flushed with annoyance. Was this his ideal Lady of Shalott, this the girl like a fairy princess come to life, all poetry, romance, and charm? She looked back at him, full in the eyes. Suddenly her face changed, and seemed to grow softer, and more what used formerly to appear to him. “I was only laughing,” she said, in a very low voice. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-day. I think I am over-excited, and too glad to get away from that dreary prison, which the Chase has been to me. Why do you look at me in that shocked sort of way? Are you sorry you married me now that you have got me safe?”