As the winter went on, Caryl, who received frequent letters from his father, without one word in them of Rhoda, became more and more disturbed as to his future. He dictated his letters to Rhoda, who transcribed them for him; but, although they both knew that the baronet must recognise her handwriting, there was never any message in Sir Robert’s letters to his son, to any one except the ladies of the marquis’s family, and the head servants at the Mill-house. These two, Rhoda and Caryl, began to talk about what they should do when the spring came, and the boy told her he intended to ask his father to let him go abroad with her, if she would not come back to the Mill-house with him. And so the weeks rolled by until winter was over, and the early days of April found Caryl still at the Priory in the care of Rhoda. There had been a long pause since Sir Robert’s last letter, and all at the Priory were rather anxious as to his movements. He had said nothing about coming home, had not answered a question put on the subject by his son, and there was much perplexity as to the cause of his silence. It was now six months since the death of Lady Sarah, and the first horror of the event had passed away. Rhoda had been pushing Caryl’s wheeled couch about the grounds for him to admire the early spring flowers in the borders, and the daffodils among the grass on the slopes opposite to the house, and she had just taken him indoors, when the fancy seized him that he would like a bunch of daffodils to put in the big flower-vase in the old nursery which had been given up to him as a sitting-room. Rhoda went out to get the flowers, carrying on her arm a wooden trug containing a knife to cut them with. She had got into the winding walk that led to the grass slopes when she suddenly became aware that there was a gentleman coming towards her from the little gate that led through the plantation. She stopped, her heart beating very fast. For it was Sir Robert Hadlow. He stopped too, and then he came towards her. The joy she felt on seeing that he did not mean to avoid her got into her head and rendered her so confused and excited that she was without words when he came up. Raising his hat rather formally, as she thought, but without the cold sternness which had characterised his manner on the fatal night of Lady Sarah’s death, he said: “How do you do, Miss Pembury. I hope my unannounced arrival has not caused you any alarm. All is well, I hope, with the ladies, and with Caryl?” “Oh, yes, they are all quite well. And Caryl, I think, is getting a little stronger. The doctor spoke very promisingly indeed only two days ago about him.” “That’s excellent news. And you? Have you been well? I think, Miss Pembury, you are looking thinner.” Rhoda reddened. She was beginning to recover some of her lost self-possession. “I am glad to be able to say that you look better, much better. I think your change must have done you a great deal of good.”