Miss Brown said; and all the maids and Martuccia watched her without saying anything. Miss Brown, who had been the teller of the story, did not think of identifying it with this result. She said, and all the female household said, that if Miss Lily had been a little older, they knew what they would have thought. And the only woman in the house who took no notice was Mary--herself so full of anxieties that her mind had little leisure for speculation. She said, yes, Lilias had grown; yes, she was changing. But what time had she to consider Lilias’ looks in detail? Randolph was Mary’s special cross; he was always about, always in her way, making her father uncomfortable, talking at the children. Mary felt herself hustled about from place to place, wearied and worried and kept in perpetual commotion. She could not look into the causes of the Squire’s strange looks and ways; she could not give her attention to the children; she could scarcely even do her business, into which Randolph would fain have forced his way, while her all-investigating brother was close by. Would he but go away and leave the harassed household in peace! But Randolph for his part was not desirous of going away. He could not go away, he represented to himself, without coming to some understanding with his father, though that understanding seemed as far off as ever. So he remained from day to day, acting as a special irritant to the whole household. He had nothing to do, and consequently he roamed about the garden, pointing out to the gardener a great many imperfections in his work; and about the stables, driving well-nigh out of his wits the steady-going, respectable groom, who nowadays had things very much his own way. He found fault with the wine, making himself obnoxious to Eastwood, and with the made dishes, exasperating Cook. Indeed there was nothing disagreeable which this visitor did not do to set his father’s house by the ears. Finally sauntering into the drawing-room, where Mary sat, driven by him out of her favourite hall, where his comments offended her more than she could bear, he reached the climax of all previous exasperations by suddenly urging upon her the undeniable fact that Nello ought to go to school. “The boy,” Randolph called him; nothing would have induced him to employ any pet name to a child, especially a foreign name like Nello--his virtue was of too severe an order to permit any such trifling. He burst out with this advice all at once. “You should send the boy to school; he ought to be at school. Old Pen’s lessons are rubbish. The boy should be at school, Mary,” he said. This sudden fulmination disturbed Mary beyond anything that had gone before, for it was quite just and true. “And I know a place--a nice homely, good sort of place, where he would be well taught and well taken care of,” he added. “Why should not you get him ready at once? and I will place him there on my way home.” This was, to do him justice, a