He was quite at a loss as to what to do; and could only stand helplessly above her, wondering who she could be, and what the chance that had brought her into so perilous a position. Vaguely he recalled certain specifics for faintness, that seemed scrawled illegibly in the commonplace-book of his mind. Wringing her ears, or her nose--he could not remember which--suggested itself as a remedy dimly familiar. Burnt feathers, also--but whether for _in_- or _ex_ternal application, he had no recollection--fluttered faintly in the background of his fancy. Now he thought he would lay her flat, and now seat her upright like a limp Eastern idol, in the hope that the position most favourable to Nature’s purpose would induce recovery. While he was speculating in great embarrassment, the young lady solved the problem for herself by opening her eyes, and giving out a little tremulous sigh, like the flutter of a scorched moth. “Oh!” she whimpered--a line of pain coming across her brow--“where is my _saltier_?” It was her chain, ending in a little medallion called a _bréviaire_--at that time fashionable--that she missed. Life devoid of this trinket was a petty possession. “It must have gone whither you nearly followed, into a disused well,” said Mr. Tuke, becomingly grave. He added with some humour of impertinence: “How a foot, too light to bruise a daisy, could tread so heavy a measure, passes my comprehension.” A little flush, as when a spoonful of red wine is dropped into a glass of milk, came to her cheek and delicate ear. “I felt it going,” she whispered; “and screamed out. Did you save me? And are you the new squire of ‘Delsrop’? Oh, sir! I am ashamed.” She broke off abruptly, and, blushing a more vivid pink, rose to a sitting posture, and put back the hair from her face in a bewildered manner. “I hardly know what I say or do,” she said. “I was so frightened; and I have lost my _saltier_. My horse is somewhere outside. Will you help me to it?” “You are not in a state to ride. Wait and rest, and I will escort you whither you wish by and by.” “No; I must go now. My brother will be home from cock-fight and raging for his supper. It was wrong of me to venture in, and I have lost my _saltier_, and nearly my life. Will you have search made for it in the well? It is gold, and the _bréviaire_ is shaped prettily like a _ridicule_.” “It shall be found, if possible. If you must go, I will ride with you.” “No, no.” “Yes, indeed. And whither may I squire you, madam?” “To ‘Chatters,’ if you must. ’Tis his house--my brother’s.” “Your brother’s?” “He is Sir David Blythewood, sir.” “You must pardon me. I have only made my _début_ in the neighbourhood this day or so.” “Yes; I know.”