Did they intercept her letters? She had had one from her father, sent from Falmouth, but only one from Maude Sefton in ten days! Moreover, she had one from Constance in her apron pocket, arrived that very afternoon, asking her to come down with Gillian on the Sundays, that the friends might enjoy themselves together while the classes were going on; but she made sure that all were so jealous of her friendship with Constance that no consent would be given. She did not hear or notice the whisperings in the laurels behind her-- ‘Do you see that sulky old Croat, smoking his pipe under the tree?’ ‘No, he is a Black Brunswicker.’ ‘Nonsense, Willie; the Black Brunswickers weren’t till Bonaparte’s time.’ ‘I don’t care, he is anything black and nasty; here goes!’ ‘Oh stop; don’t shoot. I believe he is only a vivandiere. Besides, it’s treacherous--’ ‘I tell you he is laying a train to blow up the tower. There!’ An arrow struck the bench beside Dolores, who, more angry than she had ever been in her life, snatched it up, unheeding that it had no point to speak of, rushed headlong in pursuit, while, with a tremendous shout, Valetta and Wilfred flew before her to a waste overgrown place at the end of the kitchen garden. ‘We’ve shot a Croat!’ ‘No, a Black Brunswicker.’ ‘Oh ah! They are coming--the enemy! Into the fortress! Bar the wolf’s passage!’ And as Dolores struggled through the bushes, she saw the whole family dashing into an outhouse, and the door slammed. She pushed against it, but an unearthly compound of howls, yells, shouts and bangs replied. ‘Gillian! Harry, I say,’ she cried in great anger; ‘come out, I want to speak to you.’ But her voice was lost in the war-whoops within, and the louder she knocked, the louder grew the din, till she walked off, swelling with grief and indignation. Mysie, after all her professions of friendship, to use her in this way! And Harry and Gillian, who should have kept the others within bounds! Slowly she crossed the lawn, just as Lady Merrifield, the other two aunts, and Fergus, all came out from the glass door of the drawing-room. Aunt Jane, a trim little dark-eyed woman, looking at two and forty much the same as she might have done at five and twenty; and Aunt Adeline, pretty and delicately fair, with somewhat of the same grace as Lady Merrifield, but more languor, and an air as if everything about her were for effect. Though not specially fond of theses aunts, Dolores was glad to have them as witnesses of her ill-usage. ‘There stands Dolly, like a statue of Diana, dart in hand,’ exclaimed Aunt Adeline. ‘Yes,’ said Dolores; ‘I wish to know, Aunt Lilias, if Wilfred and Valetta are to call me names, and shoot arrows at me?’ ‘What do you mean, my dear?’