Colonel Max, who was a short man, raised himself in his stirrups, and gazed from point to point of the gradually increasing crowd. "In her carriage, I suppose?" "In her carriage, of course," answered Sir George. "She is no amazon." But he did not avow his reason for inquiring after his wife's carriage--that he felt a giddiness stealing over him, and thought he might be glad of its support. Neither did he explain that he was unable to look round for it himself just then, under fear of falling from his horse. "I don't think she has come yet," said Colonel Max. "I do not see the livery. As to the ladies, they all look so like one another now, with their furbelows and feathers, that I'll be shot if I should know my own wife--if I had one--at a dozen paces' distance. Here is some one else, however." Riding up quietly, and reining in at the side of Sir George, was a gentleman of middle height, with dark hair, dark grey eyes, and a quiet, pale countenance. In age he may have wanted some three or four years of forty, and a casual observer might have pronounced him "insignificant," and never have cast on him a second glance. But there was a certain attraction in his face which won its way to hearts; and his voice sounded wonderfully sweet and kind as he grasped the hand of Sir George. "My dear father! I am so glad to see you here!" "And surprised too, I conclude, Thomas," returned Sir George, smiling on his son. "Come closer to me, will you, and let me rest my arm upon your shoulder for a minute. I feel somewhat giddy." "Should you have ventured out on horseback?" inquired Thomas Godolphin, as he hastened to place himself in proximity with his father. "The air will do me good; and the exertion also. It is nothing to feel a little weak after a confinement such as mine has been. You don't follow the hounds to-day, I see, Thomas," continued Sir George, noting his son's plain costume. A smile crossed Thomas Godolphin's lips. "No, sir. I rarely do follow them. I leave amusement to George." "Is he here, that graceless George?" demanded the knight, searching into the crowd with fond and admiring eyes. But the admiring eyes did not see the object they thought to rest on. "He is sure to be here, sir. I have not seen him." "And your sisters? Are they here?" "No. They did not care to come." "Speak for Janet and Cecil, if you please, Thomas," interrupted a young lady's voice at this juncture. The knight looked down; his son looked down also: there stood the second daughter of the family, Bessy Godolphin. She was a dark, quick, active little woman of thirty, with an ever-ready tongue, and deep grey eyes. "Bessy!" uttered Sir George, in astonishment. "Have you come here on foot?" "Yes, papa. Thomas asked us whether we wished to attend the meet; and Janet--who must always be master and mistress, you know--answered that we did not. Cecil dutifully agreed with her. I did care to attend it; so I came alone."