“Your country is a little bleak at night,” said Mr. Sharp, partially mollified by a good dinner, but beginning to remember unpleasantly the cold drive in a rattletrap of a little rustic pony carriage over the hills and hollows. “Do you really remain here all the year? How wonderful? Not even a glimpse of the world in summer, or a little escape from the chills in winter? How brave of you! What patience and powers of endurance must be cultivated in that way!” “One would think Windyhill was Siberia at least,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, laughing; “we do not give ourselves credit for all these fine qualities.” “Some people are heroes--or heroines--without knowing it,” said Mr. Sharp, with a bow. “And yet,” said the mother, with a little indignation, “there was some talk of Mr. Compton doing me the honour to share my hermitage for a part of the year.” “Mr. Compton! my dear lady! Mr. Compton would die of it in a week,” said Mr. Sharp. “I am quite well aware of it,” said Mrs. Dennistoun; and she added, after a pause, “so should I.” “What a change it will be for your daughter,” said Mr. Sharp. “She will see everything that is worth seeing. More in a month than she would see here in a dozen years. Trust Mr. Compton for knowing all that’s worth going after. They have all an instinct for life that is quite remarkable. There’s Lady Mariamne, who has society at her feet, and the old lord is a most remarkable old gentleman. Your daughter, Mrs. Dennistoun, is a very fortunate young lady. She has my best congratulations, I am sure.” “Sharp,” said Mr. Lynch from the background, “you had better be thinking of starting, if you want to catch that train.” “I’ll see if the pony is there,” said John. Mr. Sharp, put down his teacup with precipitation. “Is it as late as that?” he cried. “It is the last train,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with great satisfaction. “And I am afraid, if you missed it, as the house is full, there would be nothing but a bed at the public-house to offer----” “Oh, not another word,” the lawyer said: and fortunately he never knew how near that rising young man at the bar, John Tatham, who had every object in conciliating a solicitor, was to a charge of manslaughter, if killing an attorney can thus be called. But the feelings of the party were expressed only in actions of the greatest kindness. They helped him on with his coat, and covered him with rugs as he got in, shivering, to the little pony carriage. It was a beautiful night, but the wind is always a thing to be considered on Windyhill. “Well, that’s a good thing over,” said Mr. Lynch, going to the fire as he came in from the night air at the door and rubbing his hands. “It would have been a relief to one’s feeling to have kicked that fellow all the way down and up the other side of the combe, and kept him warm,” said John, with a laugh of wrath. “It is a pity a man should have so little taste,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.