Lady Ingleby buried her face in the bedclothes. "That--for ten long years!" she said. Then, in the darkness, she saw the mutinous fire of Jim Airth's blue eyes, and felt the grip of his strong hands on hers. "How can I say 'Good-night'?" protested his deep voice, passionately. And, with a rush of happy tears, Myra clasped her hands, whispering: "Dear God, am I at last to know the Best?" And up the stairs came Jim Airth, whistling like a nightingale. But, as a concession to Miss Murgatroyd's ideas concerning suitable Sabbath music, he discarded "Nancy Lee," and whistled: "Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave; Who bidst the mighty ocean deep, Its own appointed limits keep, O hear us, when we cry to Thee----" And, kneeling beside her bed, in the darkness, Myra made of it her evening prayer. CHAPTER XV "WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY?" When Jim Airth left the train on the following Tuesday afternoon, he looked eagerly up and down the platform, hoping to see Myra. True, they had particularly arranged not to meet, until after his interview with Lady Ingleby. But Myra was so charmingly inconsequent and impulsive in her actions. It would be quite like her to reverse the whole plan they had made; and, if her desire to see him, in any measure resembled his huge hunger for a sight of her, he could easily understand such a reversal. However, Myra was not there; and with a heavy sense of unreasonable disappointment, Jim Airth chucked his ticket to a waiting porter, passed through the little station, and found a smart turn-out, with tandem ponies, waiting outside. The groom at the leader's head touched his hat. "For Shenstone Park, sir?" "Yes," said Jim Airth, and climbed in. The groom touched his hat again. "Her ladyship said, sir, that perhaps you might like to drive the ponies yourself, sir." "No, thank you," said Jim Airth, shortly. "I never drive other people's ponies." The groom's comprehending grin was immediately suppressed. He touched his hat again; gathered up the reins, mounted the driver's seat, flicked the leader, and the perfectly matched ponies swung at once into a fast trot. Jim Airth, a connoisseur in horse-flesh, eyed them with approval. They flew along the narrow Surrey lanes, between masses of wild roses and clematis. The villagers were working in the hayfields, shouting gaily to one another as they tossed the hay. It was a matchless June day, in a perfect English summer. Jim Airth's disappointment at Myra's non-appearance, was lifting rapidly in the enjoyment of the drive. After all it was best to adhere to plans once made; and every step of these jolly little tapping hoofs was bringing him nearer to the Lodge. Perhaps she would be at the window. (He had particularly told her _not_ to be!) "These ponies have been well handled," he remarked approvingly to the groom, as they flew round a bend.