‘Did you think the manner in which my arrival was welcomed in other respects, Maggie,’ he inquired bitterly, ‘carried out the parable?’ ‘Never mind; you are out for your holiday, remember, and must only think of enjoying yourself.’ ‘Well, I hope _you_ are glad to see me, at all events.’ ‘Well, of course I am; it’s a very unexpected pleasure.’ ‘Is it? I should have thought you might have guessed that I should have managed to join you somehow.’ ‘I have not your genius for plots and strategies, Willie; it is so great that it sometimes a little alarms me,’ she answered gravely. ‘The weak must take up such weapons as lay to their hand,’ he replied drily. This conversation, carried on as it was in a low tone, was drowned by the clatter of knives and forks; before the latter had ceased the notes of the horn were once more heard, the signal for the resumption of their journey. The party rose at once, Mr. Erin leading the way. He took no notice of his son as he pushed by him, but the neglect was more than compensated for by the attention of the female members of the company. William Henry was a very comely young fellow; his complexion dark, but not swarthy; his eyes keen and bright; a profusion of black curling hair was tied by a ribbon under his hat, which gave him a somewhat feminine appearance, though it was not unusual so to wear it; his attire, though neat, was far from foppish—a dark blue coat with a short light waistcoat; a neckcloth by no means so large as was worn by many young persons in his station of life; and nankeen breeches. If it is difficult for us to suppose such a costume becoming, it was easy for those who were accustomed to it to think so. His figure, it was observed, as he walked rapidly to overtake his father, was especially good. ‘I have made inquiries, Mr. Erin,’ he said respectfully, as the old man placed his foot on the step, ‘and find there is plenty of room in the coach.’ ‘You mean _on_ the coach,’ was the dry reply; ‘surely a young man like you—leaving out of question the ridiculous extravagance of such a proceeding—would never wish to be an inside passenger on an afternoon like this.’ And with a puff, half of displeasure, half of exhaustion, caused by the effort of the ascent, the antiquary sank into his seat. ‘Do you not ride with us?’ inquired Mr. Dennis good-naturedly, as he came up to the door with Margaret upon his arm. The young man’s cheeks flushed with anger. ‘You do not know William Henry,’ said the girl, interposing with a smile; ‘he does not care for the nest when he can sit upon the bough.’ ‘It is pleasanter outside—for some things—no doubt,’ assented Mr. Dennis as he assisted her into the coach. She cast a sympathising glance over her shoulder at William Henry, as he swung himself up to the hind seat, and he returned it with a grateful look. She had saved him from a humiliation.