“Mr. Geoff!--who is Mr. Geoff?” “He is--very kind--oh, very kind, Mary; he is--some one who knows about papa: he is--the gentleman who once came with two beautiful horses in a carriage (oh, don’t you remember, Nello?) to see _you_.” “Yes,” said Nello, with ready testimony; “he said I should ride upon them. They were two bay horses, in one of those high-up funny carriages, not like Mary’s carriage. I wonder if I might ride upon his horse now?” “To see _me_?” Mary was entirely bewildered. “And what do you mean about your father?” she said. “Knows about papa! Lilias! come here; I am not angry. What does he know about papa?” Lilias came up slowly to her side, half unwilling to communicate her own knowledge on this point. For Mary had not told her the secret, she remembered suddenly. But the confusion of Lilias was interrupted by something more startling and agitating. Eastwood came into the hall, with a certain importance and solemnity. “If you please, ma’am,” he said, “my Lord Stanton has just come in, and I’ve shown him into the library--to my master. I thought you would like to know.” “Lord Stanton--to my father, Eastwood? my father ought not to be troubled with strangers. Lord Stanton!--to be sure it was that boy. Quick, say that I shall be glad to see him up-stairs.” “If you please, ma’am, his lordship asked for my master; and my master--he said, ‘Yes, certainly.’ He was quite smiling like, and cheerful. He said, ‘Yes; certainly, Eastwood.’ So, what was I to do? I showed his lordship in--and there they are now--as friendly--as friendly, if I may venture to make a comparison: His lordship,” said Eastwood, prudently pausing before he committed himself to metaphor, “is, if I may make bold to say so, one of the nicest young gentleman!” Mary had risen hastily to interrupt this dangerous interview, which alarmed her. She stood, paying no attention to Eastwood while the man was talking, feeling herself crowded and pressed on all hands by a multitude of thoughts. The hum of them was in her ears, like the sound of a throng of people. Should she go to the library, whatever her father might think of the interruption? Should she stop this meeting at all hazards? or should she let it go on, and that come which would? All was confusion around her, her heart beating loudly in her ears, and a hundred suggestions sounding through that stormy throbbing. But when Eastwood’s commonplace voice, to which she had been paying no heed, stopped, Mary’s thoughts came to a stop also. She grew faint, and the light seemed to vanish from her eyes.