“Oh, no, thank you--I am not nervous!” I replied contemptuously, when a loud peal of thunder startled me so much that I nearly fell off my seat. He said nothing, did not even smile at my crestfallen look; but he took up his stand in front of me, giving me a fine view of his profile against the dark sky. Every minute of this awkward silence was making it more difficult to me to think of something to say. “I wish it would leave off,” I remarked stupidly, at length. “Are you in such a hurry to get back to the Alders? It is no drier there than it is here.” “But at least one can change one’s boots.” “Have you got your feet wet? Why, you have on little toy town-boots, not fit to walk down a country-lane in! You will be laid up with rheumatic fever, or something of the kind,” said he anxiously, looking vaguely about him for dry boots. “Oh, no, no--they are much thicker than they look!” said I. “It isn’t that. But Mr. Rayner will be anxious.” “Mr. Rayner; and Mrs. Rayner, won’t she be anxious too?” “Oh, Mrs. Rayner is never anything! At least--I mean,” said I, annoyed at having spoken without thinking, “she is so reserved that--” “That you like Mr. Rayner best?” “Oh, yes!” He drew himself up rather coldly. “So do most ladies, I believe.” “One can’t help liking a person who talks and laughs, and is bright and kind, better than one who never speaks, and glides about like a ghost, and looks coldly at you if you speak to her,” I burst out, apologetically at first, but warming into vehemence towards the close of my speech. “Perhaps she means to be kind,” said he gently. “Then she ought to make her meaning plainer. She can’t think it is kind to fix her eyes upon me as if I were something not human, if I laugh; to give me her hand so coldly and unresponsively that it seems like a dead hand in mine, and at other times to take no more notice of me than if I were not there. Besides, she knows that it is the first time I have ever left home, and she must see sometimes that I am not happy.” Mr. Reade suddenly stooped towards me, and then straightened himself again just as suddenly, without any remark; but he cleared his throat. I remembered that I had no right to make this confession to a comparative stranger, and I added quickly-- “I ought not to talk as if I were ill-treated. I am not at all. If she would only not be quite so cold!” “Perhaps her own troubles are very heavy and hard to bear.” “Oh, no, they are not!” I replied confidently. “At least, she has a kind husband and a pretty home, and everything she can wish for. And I think it is very selfish of her to give herself up to brooding over the memory of her dead child, instead of trying to please her living husband.” “Her dead child?” “Yes. She had a boy who died some years ago, and she has never got over it. That is why she is so reserved.” “Oh! How long ago did this boy die?” asked he, in a curiously incredulous tone. “About five years ago, I think Mr. Rayner said.”