"I do feel it. I wish I could get from the garden into my nest without going up through the house and down the Jacob's ladder," I said. "It is so hot! I never felt heat like it before." He sat silent for a while, and then said,-- "I've been thinking I must get you into the country for a few weeks. It would do you no end of good." "I suppose the wind does blow somewhere," I returned. "But"-- "You don't want to leave me?" he said. "I don't. And I know with that ugly portrait on hand you can't go with me." "He happened to be painting the portrait of a plain red-faced lady, in a delicate lace cap,--a very unfit subject for art,--much needing to be made over again first, it seemed to me. Only there she was, with a right to have her portrait painted if she wished it; and there was Percivale, with time on his hands, and room in his pockets, and the faith that whatever God had thought worth making could not be unworthy of representation. Hence he had willingly undertaken a likeness of her, to be finished within a certain time, and was now working at it as conscientiously as if it had been the portrait of a lovely young duchess or peasant-girl. I was only afraid he would make it too like to please the lady herself. His time was now getting short, and he could not leave home before fulfilling his engagement. "But," he returned, "why shouldn't you go to the Hall for a week or two without me? I will take you down, and come and fetch you." "I'm so stupid you want to get rid of me!" I said. I did not in the least believe it, and yet was on the edge of crying, which is not a habit with me. "You know better than that, my Wynnie," he answered gravely. "You want your mother to comfort you. And there must be some air in the country. So tell Sarah to put up your things, and I'll take you down to-morrow morning. When I get this portrait done, I will come and stay a few days, if they will have me, and then take you home." The thought of seeing my mother and my father, and the old place, came over me with a rush. I felt all at once as if I had been absent for years instead of weeks. I cried in earnest now,--with delight though,--and there is no shame in that. So it was all arranged; and next afternoon I was lying on a couch in the yellow drawing-room, with my mother seated beside me, and Connie in an easy-chair by the open window, through which came every now and then such a sweet wave of air as bathed me with hope, and seemed to wash all the noises, even the loose-jawed man's hateful howl, from my brain. Yet, glad as I was to be once more at home, I felt, when Percivale left me the next morning to return by a third-class train to his ugly portrait,--for the lady was to sit to him that same afternoon,--that the idea of home was already leaving Oldcastle Hall, and flitting back to the suburban cottage haunted by the bawling voice of the costermonger.