"How touchy you are upon the point!" she cried, with a light laugh. "Do you know, George Godolphin, that that very touchiness betrays the fact that you, for one, are not exempt from the dread. And," she added, changing her tone again to one of serious sympathy, "did not the dread help to kill Mrs. Godolphin?" "No," he gravely answered. "If you give ear to all the stories that the old wives of the neighbourhood love to indulge in, you will collect a valuable stock of fable-lore." "Let it pass. If I repeated the fable, it was because I had heard it. But now you will understand why I felt vexed last night when you did not come. It was not for your sweet company I was pining, as your vanity has been assuming, but that I wanted you to see the Shadow.--How that girl is fixing her eyes upon us!" George Godolphin turned at the last sentence, which was uttered abruptly. An open barouche had drawn up, and its occupants, two ladies, were both looking towards them. The one was a young girl with a pale gentle face and dark eyes, as remarkable for their refined sweetness, as Miss Pain's were for their brilliancy. The other was a little lady of middle age, dressed youthfully, and whose naturally fair complexion was so excessively soft and clear, as to give a suspicion that nature had less hand in it than art. It was Lady Godolphin. She held her eye-glass to her eye, and turned it on the crowd. "Maria, whatever is that on horseback?" she asked. "It looks green." "It is Charlotte Pain in a bright-green riding-habit," was the young lady's answer. "A bright-green riding-habit! And her head seems to glitter! Has she anything in her cap?" "It appears to be a gold feather." "She must look beautiful! Very handsome, does she not?" "For those who admire her style--very," replied Maria Hastings. Which was certainly not the style of Maria Hastings. Quiet, retiring, gentle, she could only wonder at those who dressed in bright-coloured habits with gold buttons and feathers, and followed the hounds over gates and ditches. Miss Hastings wore a pretty white silk bonnet, and grey cashmere mantle. Nothing could be plainer; but then, she was a clergyman's daughter. "It is on these occasions that I regret my deficient sight," said Lady Godolphin. "Who is that, in scarlet, talking to her? It resembles the figure of George Godolphin." "It is he," said Maria. "He is coming towards us." He was piloting his horse through the throng, returning greetings from every one. A universal favourite was George Godolphin. Charlotte Pain's fine eyes were following him with somewhat dimmed brilliancy: he was not so entirely hers as she could wish to see him. "How are you this morning, Lady Godolphin?" But it was on the hand of Maria Hastings that his own lingered; and her cheeks took the hue of Charlotte Pain's, as he bent low to whisper words that were all too dear. "George, do you know that your father is here?" said Lady Godolphin.