"Oh, yes, dear Major Day," said Lucy; "but please don't think so ill of me again." "I'm a dreadful old scoundrel ever to have thought ill of you at all," cried the major. "There, we must forget all the past. Ah, doctor, how are you? When are you coming up to the hall? My brother will be glad to see you, I'm sure." "I hope Sir John is not unwell?" said Oldroyd, trying to wither Lucy with a look, and bringing back upon himself such an indignant flash that he metaphorically curled up, as he muttered something to himself about the daring impudence some women could display. "Unwell? dear me, no," said the major. "A little pulled down by too much inaction abroad; nothing hurts him though much. I mean come as a visitor. How is the health of the neighbourhood, eh?" "Excellent, Major Day, that is, excepting Mr Alleyne's." "What! Mr Alleyne ill? Bless my soul! you did not say anything about it, my dear." "My dear! my dear!" muttered Oldroyd between his teeth; "always my dear. Surely the old idiot is not going to marry the wicked little flirt." "I had not had time, Major Day," said Lucy eagerly, "but I don't think dear Moray is any worse than usual." "Worse than usual? Then he has been unwell?" "He is ill," replied Lucy, "but it has been coming on so slowly that I am afraid we do not notice it so much as we should." "But is he confined to his bed?" "Oh, no!" cried Lucy. "He is going on with his studies just as usual." "I'll come over and see him. I meant to come, but I--er--I hesitated, my dear. Do you think he would be pleased if I called?" "I'm sure he would, Major Day," cried Lucy. "Pray come soon." "Indeed, I will, perhaps to-morrow. Are you going my way?" "No, major, I am going back to The Firs. I do not like to be away when Mr Oldroyd is going to see my brother." The major shook hands warmly, and went his way, saying to himself,-- "What did she mean? She did not like to be away when Mr Oldroyd visited her brother? What she said, of course. Ah, how prone men are to put a second meaning to other people's words. How ready I was to think ill of the little lassie and her brother; and I am as ready now to own that she is innocence itself. I used to think, though, that she cared for Oldroyd." Meanwhile, Lucy was walking straight along by the side of the road, back towards The Firs, with Oldroyd, on his disreputable-looking steed, a yard or two upon her left. By quitting the road and cutting across the open boggy land, amidst the furze and whortleberry scrub Lucy could have saved a quarter-of-a-mile, and left her companion behind; or even if he had elected to follow her, the softness of the soil and the constant recurrence of swampy patches about, which one on foot could easily avoid, would have necessitated so much care that he would have been left far behind.