"He was just a trifle testy," remarked Erle, quietly suppressing the fact that his cousin had surprised him much by a fit of regular bad temper. "He thinks I am not to be trusted with your ladyship any more;" and he changed the subject by a lively eulogium on the young ladies at the vicarage, one of whom he declared to be almost as handsome as Miss Selby; and he kept up such a flow of conversation on this topic that Fay had no opportunity to put another question. Sir Hugh was waiting for them at the Hall door, but Fay thought he looked very grave and pale as he came to the carriage to lift her out. "This is a very foolish business," he said, as he carried her up to her room, his strong arms hardly conscious of her weight; "how did it happen, Fay?" and she knew at once by his tone that he was much displeased. "Erle ought to have taken better care of you; I told him so," he continued, as he placed her on the couch. "I can not let you go running about the country with him like this; of course the lanes were slippery, he ought to have known that." "You are vexed with me, Hugh," she said, very gently. "You think that I ought not to have gone to the Grange, but indeed I could not help myself." "There were other houses," he stammered, not caring to meet her clear look. "I thought that you would have respected my wishes, but I see I am mistaken." "Oh, Hugh," returned the poor child, quite heart-broken at this stern rebuke; "indeed, indeed, I never meant to disobey you, but my foot was so painful, and I felt so faint, and Erle was so peremptory with me." "Well, well, you need not cry about it," observed her husband impatiently; "you are such a child, Fay, one can never say a word to you; I have a right to be displeased, if my wife goes against my wishes." "I am very sorry," she answered, meekly, trying to keep back those troublesome tears; "please do not be so angry, Hugh, you know I care for nothing but to please you, and--and I don't feel quite well, and your voice is so loud." "Very well, then, I will take myself off," in rather a huffy tone, but he relented at the sight of her pale little face, and some of his bad humor evaporated. "The fact is, you are such a child that you don't know how to take care of yourself," he continued, sitting down by her, and letting her rest comfortably against him. "You will do yourself a mischief some day, Fay. I shall get Doctor Martin to come up and see your foot, and then, perhaps, he will give you a lecture." "Oh, no," she returned, charmed at this change of tone, for his anger had frightened her; "there is no need for that, dear, it is only a sprained ankle, and Miss Ferrers has bandaged it so beautifully, a day or two's rest will put it all right." "But all the same, I should like to have Doctor Martin's opinion," he answered, quickly. "I am afraid you must have found it very awkward, Fay, being cast on the compassion of strangers."