"Don't apply to me, Cris. I know nothing about things downstairs; I cannot say one way or the other. The horses and vehicles are specially the things that your father will not have meddled with. Do you remember taking out the dog-cart without leave, and the result?" Cris looked angry; perhaps the reminiscence was not agreeable. Miss Diana interfered. "You will _not_ take out the gig, Cris. I have said it." "Then see if I don't walk! And if I am not home to dinner, Aunt Diana, you can just tell the Squire the thanks are due to you." "Where do you wish to go?" asked Mrs. Chattaway. "I am going to Barmester. I want to wish that fellow joy of his indentures," added Cris, a glow of triumph lighting up his face. "He is bound by this time. I wonder the Squire is not back again!" The Squire was back again. As Cris spoke, his tread was heard on the stairs, and he came into the room. Cris was too full of his own concerns to note the expression of his face. "Father, may I take out the gig? I want to go to Barmester, to pay a visit of congratulation to George Ryle." "No, you will not take out the gig," said Mr. Chattaway, the allusion exciting his anger almost beyond bearing. Cris thought he might have been misunderstood. Cris deemed that his proclaimed intention would find favour with Mr. Chattaway. "I suppose you have been binding that fellow, father. I want to go and ask him how he likes it." "No, sir, I have not been binding him," thundered Mr. Chattaway. "What's more, he is not going to be bound. He has left it, and is at home again." Cris gave a blank stare of amazement, and Mrs. Chattaway let her hands fall silently upon her lap and heaved a gentle sigh, as though some great good had come to her. CHAPTER XI RUPERT None of us can stand still in life. Everything rolls on its course towards the end of all things. In noting down a family's or a life's history, its periods will be differently marked. Years will glide quietly on, giving forth few events worthy of record; again, it will happen that occurrences, varied and momentous, will be crowded into an incredibly short space of time. Events, sufficient to fill up the allotted life of man, will follow one another in rapid succession in the course of as many months; nay, of as many days.