The Pynsents arrived in the highest spirits at Wetheral, and the sight of Anna Maria gave animation to her mother's countenance for a season. She thought her very much improved in looks, and it was not her fault that Anna Maria had not rouged before she married; but Sir John had many prejudices, and that was one of them. Tom Pynsent was delighted. "Well, I do like to hear every one say my little wife is rouged; it proves how rosy she is grown. All my care, Lady Wetheral, all my care. I let her do as she liked; Biddulph, and Jack Smith, and myself, went after her, and the Count; every where kept her in sight, you know. She talked herself into that pretty rosy face." "You were not conspicuous, my love, I hope," said her mother, smiling. "Oh, no; Tom liked me to chat my French, did you not, my love?" "I liked you to make yourself happy," answered Tom, affectionately. "You made _me_ happy, by getting such a nice healthy bloom." A look of affection, and a pressure of the hand, attested his lady's gratitude and love, though she coloured through her rouge at her husband's remark. "When we have lunched," continued Tom Pynsent, taking nearly half a pigeon-pie into his plate, "when we have just taken off the edge of hunger, we'll have a ride on horseback, Anny, and go over the old ground again. You must have an old habit here, somewhere; let us go and see our old love haunts." Anna Maria was nothing loth; her matrimony was of only four or five months' standing, and they were lovers still. She was quite willing to take an agreeable ride with her dear Tom. "Let us have the young one, too," exclaimed the good-natured Tom Pynsent; "habits and horses for two, and you shall see the world, missy." "I shall want Bell," said Lady Wetheral, annoyed at the idea of a _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Pynsent. "Ay, Miss Bell, stay with us, I shall want a casting vote, and I shall want you to introduce me to Sir John's study," cried Mrs. Pynsent, giving Christobelle a thump upon her shoulder. "I must become acquainted with you, young lady." Lady Wetheral's possession of manner concealed the disgust she endured at this movement. She turned to her eldest daughter, and inquired at what hour she would wish her horse equipped. "Oh, my poor Lady Mary, let her be saddled at three, if you please. I think three o'clock, Tom, will do." "Lord, Mrs. Tom, you will be as hot as fire, riding in the blazing sun," exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent. "Perhaps Mrs. _Tom Pynsent_ would prefer her ride at four o'clock," observed Lady Wetheral. "My daughter, Tom, will melt away," replied Mrs. Pynsent, giving her a touch with the elbow. "Suppose your pretty face melts, eh, Mrs. Tom? That would be a pretty confession, wouldn't it?" "At what hour, Mrs. Pynsent?" demanded her mother, addressing Anna Maria, and taking no notice of Mrs. Pynsent, the elder.