"A poor and pitiful reason, ungarnished with excuse to hide its sorry nature. If the reason be bad, so much the more should it be trimmed with excuses." "If I have offended you, I am sorry. I cannot help it." Julian tossed her head. She was highly incensed. He made no attempt to mollify her. Fox came alongside. "I hope, Julian," he said, "that you have soundly rated Anthony for his ill-conduct." She did not answer. "We might have had a merry canter home over the turf," continued Fox, "had not Anthony spoiled our fun by setting all our tempers on the edge. But it may be that it better comports with the character of the Lyke-Way that we should travel over it rather as mourners than as merrymakers, and that, forsooth, we are, bearing dead fellowship between us." "There is no occasion for that," said Anthony. "In truth there is, though you who have slain it may not be aware." "I have no desire to spoil your mirth," said Cleverdon. "Ride on yourself, Fox, with your sister, and leave me behind." "Julian and I are the worst of company together. We snarl and snap at each other when a third, not of the family, is not by to control us. We will certainly not leave you. I can see that Julian is already in no agreeable mood, and I dare not venture myself in her company unprotected." "I--!" said Julian Crymes, tossing her head, "I--you mistake, Tony, I am merry." Fox Crymes laughed mockingly, and spurred on his horse, leaving his sister with Anthony. Bessie brought up the rear with Urith. The train was, as he said, more in character with the way than if it had been composed of merrymakers. Urith and Bessie spoke together in a low tone; now that Fox had ridden forward, silence again fell on Anthony and Julian. He could not have seen the face of Julian had he essayed to do so, for he walked on the off-side, and she kept her head averted, and he his eyes depressed. She was glad that her face was hidden from observation, so agitated was it with disappointment, wounded pride, and jealousy. Then Fox, ahead, began to sing to himself in strident tones a snatch of an old ballad, and every word in it fell on Julian's heart as a drop of burning phosphorous that no water will extinguish, but that burns down where it has fallen, burying itself, till it has exhausted its fire. If I of marriage spake one word, I wot it was not true. Man loveth none so easy won, So over fond as you. All in your garden grows a herb, I think they call it rue; There willows weep o'er waters deep-- That is the place for you. The tears of mortification rushed into Julian's eyes. Her bosom heaved, and sharply she wheeled her horse about, rode back to those that followed, and said to Bessie, in a voice quivering with emotion, "Go on to the two Anthonys. I want a word with Urith."