"They are Mrs. Ryle's as long as she rents them. It is all the same. Mr. Chattaway has forbidden you to cross them. Come down from the stile, Emily." "No. I shall jump over it." It was ever thus. Except in the presence of Miss Diana Trevlyn, the girls were openly rude and disobedient to Maude. Expected to teach them, she was denied the ordinary authority vested in a governess. And Maude could not emancipate herself: she must suffer and submit. Emily Chattaway put her foot over the top bar of the stile, preparatory to jumping over it, when the sound of a horse was heard, and she turned her head. Riding along the lane at a quick pace was a gentleman of some three or four-and-twenty years: a tall man, as far as could be seen, who sat his horse well. He reined in when he saw them, and bent down a pleasant face, with a pleasant smile upon it. The sun shone into his fine dark eyes, as he stooped to shake hands with Maude. Maude's cheeks had turned crimson. "Quite well," she stammered, in answer to his greeting, somewhat losing her self-possession. "When did you return home?" "Last night. I was away two days only, instead of the four anticipated. Emily, you'll fall backwards if you don't mind." "No, I sha'n't," said Emily. "Why did you not stay longer?" "I found Treve away when I reached Oxford, so I came back again, and got home last night--to Nora's discomfiture." Maude looked into his face with a questioning glance. She had quite recovered her self-possession. "Why?" she asked. George Ryle laughed. "Nora had turned my bedroom inside out, and accused me, in her vexation, of coming back on purpose." "Where did you sleep?" asked Emily. "In Treve's room. Take care, Edith!" Maude hastily drew back Edith Chattaway, who had gone too near the horse. "How is Mrs. Ryle?" asked Maude. "We heard yesterday she was not well." "She is suffering from a cold. I have scarcely seen her. Maude," leaning down and whispering, "are things any brighter than they were?" Again the soft colour came into her face, and she threw him a glance from her dark blue eyes. If ever glance spoke of indignation, hers did. "What change can there be?" she breathed. "Rupert is ill again," she added in louder tones. "Rupert!" "At least, he is not well, and is at home to-day. But he is better than he was yesterday----" "Here comes Octave," interrupted Emily. George Ryle gathered up his reins. Shaking hands with Maude, he said a hasty good-bye to the other two, and cantered down the lane, lifting his hat to Miss Chattaway, who was coming up from a distance. She was advancing quickly across the common, behind the fence on the other side of the lane. A tall, thin young woman, looking her full age of four or five-and-twenty, with the same leaden complexion as of yore, and the disagreeably sly grey eyes. She wore a puce silk paletot, and a brown hat trimmed with black lace; an unbecoming costume for one so tall.