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Her meaning, in spite of her, is clear; but Geoffrey doesn't dare so much as to think about it. Yet in his heart he knows that he is glad because of her words. "And he is your cousin, this strange young man?" "Is it?" says she, a little wistfully. "You think so now; but if afterwards you should know regret, or——".

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"I will—when I find it," returns she, with an irrepressible glance, full of native but innocent coquetry, from her beautiful eyes. "Who is uttering seditious language now?" asks he, reproachfully. "No, you wrong me. I had, indeed, forgotten for the moment all about that unfortunate driver. You must remember I am a stranger here. The peasants are unknown to me. I cannot be expected to feel a keen interest in each one individually. In fact, had Mr. Moore been killed instead of poor Maloney, I shouldn't have felt it a bit the more, though he was the master and the other the man. I can only suffer with those I know and love." As he reaches the broad stream that divides him from the land he would reach, he pauses and tries to think of any decent excuse that may enable him to walk with a bold front up to the cottage door. But no such excuse presents itself. Memory proves false. It refuses to assist him. He is almost in despair. "Are you sure?"—with cold severity. "It is only two days ago since you told me you loved nothing better than an easy-chair.".