Come, let us turn; it will soon be time to dress for dinner. By the way, Dorothy, that reminds me. I don’t quite like the way that your respected grandfather is going on. I told him that I had no more deeds for him to copy, that I had done with deeds, and he went and got that confounded stick of his, and showed me that according to his own little calculations his time was up; and then he got his slate and wrote about my being the devil on it, but that I had no more power over him, and that he was bound for heaven. The other day, too, I caught him staring at me through the glass of the door with a very queer look in his eyes.” “Ah, Reginald, so you have noticed it! I quite agree with you; I don’t at all like his goings-on. Do you know, I think that he had better be shut up.” “I don’t like to shut him up, Dorothy. However, here we are; we will talk about it to-morrow.” Having led Ernest to his room, Dorothy, before beginning to dress herself, went to the office to see if her grandfather was still there. And there, sure enough, she found him, pacing up and down, muttering, and waving his long stick, out of which all the notches had now been cut. “What are you doing, grandfather?” she asked; “why haven’t you gone to dress?” He snatched up his slate and wrote rapidly upon it: “Time’s up! Time’s up! Time’s up! I’ve done with the devil and all his works. I’m off to heaven on the big black horse to find Mary. Who are you? You look like Mary.” “Grandfather,” said Dolly, quietly taking the slate out of his hand, “what do you mean by writing such nonsense? Let me hear no more of it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now, mind, I will have no more of it. Put away that stick, and go and wash your hands for dinner.” The old man did as he was bid somewhat sulkily, Dorothy thought; but when he arrived at the dinner-table there was nothing noticeable about his manner. They dined at a quarter to seven, and dinner did not take them very long. When it was over, old Atterleigh drank some wine, and then, according to his habit, went and sat in the ancient ingle-nook which had presumably been built by the forgotten Dum for his comfort on winter evenings. And on winter evenings, when there was a jolly wood-fire burning on the hearth, it was a pleasant spot enough; but to sit there in the dark on a lovely summer night was an act, well—worthy of old Atterleigh. After dinner the conversation turned upon that fatal day when Alston’s Horse was wiped out at Isandhlwana. It was a painful subject both to Ernest and Jeremy, but the former was gratifying his uncle’s curiosity by explaining to him how that last dread struggle with the six Zulus came to determine itself in their favour. “And how was it,” asked Mr. Cardus, “that you managed to get the better of the fellow you rolled down the hill with?” “Because the assegai broke, and, fortunately enough, the blade was left in my hand. Where is it, Doll?” (for Jeremy had brought it home with him.)