I looked at the face in the shadow of the chintz curtains. It was a fair, boyish face, with something very sweet and captivating about it, even through its rigid pallor. A small golden moustache hid the quiet mouth, and the hair was golden. The lids were only half-closed over the eyes, so that I was startled a minute. "He looks as if he were dead, Oona," I cried, starting back. "He's not dead, Miss Hilda, don't you be afraid of that; and what's more, he's not going to die." "He is very handsome," I said, venturing on another glance. "He is,--a downright pretty young gentleman," said Oona; and the phrase seemed the right one. His was an almost feminine charm and sweetness. Ever since the accident I had been troubled by the foolish thing I had been saying to Esther just at the moment it happened. Of course it was only a jest, and could have had no possible effect; a silly joke couldn't have made the bay put its foot in a rabbit-hole. Still, I felt horribly disquieted about it, and only hoped that Esther had not heard me, as she certainly had not seemed to. "It would be horrible, Oona," said I, "if your banshee had been crying for him." Oona looked at me almost with contempt. "'Tis English he is, by the cut of him," she said. "I never heard tell of an English family that she followed." Oona shook her head and sighed, and I knew that she was thinking the mysterious warning betokened death for one of us. It made me feel rather creepy, so I went out, closing the door, and in search of Esther. I found her lying down. She had a headache, she said, and she looked flushed and ill at ease. "Dear old Essie," I said as I patted her pillows, "the shock of seeing the accident has upset you. You must try and sleep, and then you will be better." I felt a little lost for want of Esther's company, as I stole down to Aline's room. Finding it empty, I crept into a corner by the fire and lost my sense of loneliness in a novel. But only for a time, for it wasn't a very convincing novel, and the thing which had happened to us only this morning was much more interesting. Presently my novel slipped from my knee, and I sat with my chin propped in my hands, looking into the heart of the cosy driftwood fire. All of a sudden an illumination came to me. Why, the boy upstairs was, must be, Sir Rupert's grandson. How amazing that nobody should have thought of it but me! "This makes a horribly awkward complication," I thought, having made up my mind on the first matter. "If Aline recognizes the probability of my guess, she will think it her duty to send word to Sir Rupert. I feel quite sure that Sir Rupert is wicked and determined enough to remove the young fellow at the risk of his life. He wouldn't be beholden to a Brandon for anything. Then, if the removal didn't kill him, the tender mercies of Castle Angry would be sure to do it."