A feeling of elation made the girl's heart glow, and her eyes sparkle, as she more and more began to nurse this, one of the greatest ideas of her heart. It was an exceedingly immoral proceeding on her part, for she knew that Glynne was engaged to be married to Captain Rolph; but him she utterly detested, she told herself, and that it was an entire mistake; in fact, she assured herself that it would be an act of the greatest benevolence, and one for which she would receive the thanks of both parties all through her lifetime--if she could succeed in breaking off the engagement and marrying Glynne to her brother. The conversation went on, but it was checked from time to time by Mrs Alleyne again rising to go to the window, and this movement on her part always had the effect of making Lucy's eyes drop immediately upon her work; and, though she had been the minute before frankly meeting Oldroyd's gaze in conversation, such remarks as he addressed to her now were answered with her look averted, as she busied herself over her sewing. "Moray never stayed so late as this before," said Mrs Alleyne, suddenly, turning her pale face on those who were so wrapped in their own thoughts that they had almost forgotten the absentee. "No, mamma," cried Lucy, reproaching herself for her want of interest; "he is an hour later." "It is getting on towards two hours beyond his time," cried Mrs Alleyne, in despairing tones. "I am very uneasy." "Oh, but he has only gone a little farther than usual, mamma, dear," cried Lucy; "pray don't be uneasy." "I cannot help it, my child," cried Mrs Alleyne; "he who is so punctual in all his habits would never stay away like this. Is he likely to meet poachers?" "Let me go and try if I can meet him," said Oldroyd, jumping up. "Poachers wouldn't touch him." "Yes, do, Mr Oldroyd. I will go with you," cried Lucy, forgetting in her excitement that such a proposal was hardly etiquette. But neither mother nor daughter, in their anxiety, seemed to have the slightest idea of there being anything extraordinary at such a time. "It won't do," Oldroyd had been saying to himself, "even if it should prove that I'm not a conceited ass to think such things, and she--bless her sweet, bright little face--ever willing to think anything of me, I should be a complete scoundrel to try and win her. Let me see, what did I make last year by my practice? Twenty-eight pounds fifteen, and nine pounds of it still owing, and likely to be owing, for I shall never get a _sou_. Then this year, what shall I take? Well, perhaps another five pounds on account of her brother's illness. I must be mad." "Yes," he said, after a pause, "I must be mad, and must have been worse to come down here to this out-of-the-way place, where there is not the most remote chance of my getting together a practice. No, it won't do, I must play misogynist, and be as cold towards the bright little thing as if I were a monk."