She looked at her now with a melancholy air which sat oddly upon her bright, comical face, and which was intended to draw attention to the pathetic fact of her own impending departure.

“I only came to say good-bye,” said Sarah, in slightly injured tones.

“Ah! by-the-by, and I have promised not to intrude on the parting,” said John, with twinkling eyes.

“It is not an eternal farewell,” said Lady Mary, drawing Sarah kindly towards her.

“It may be for years,” said Sarah, rather offended.  “My aunt Elizabeth is as good as adopting me.  Mamma said I was very lucky, and I believe she is glad to be rid of me.  But papa says he shall come and see me in London.  Aunt Elizabeth is going to take me to Paris and to Scotland, and abroad every winter.”

“Oh, Sarah, how you will be changed when you come back!” said Lady Mary; and she laughed a little, with a hand on Sarah’s shoulder; but Sarah knew that Lady Mary was not thinking very much about her, all the same.

“There is no fresh news, John?” she asked.

“Nothing since my last telegram,” he answered.  “But I have arranged with the Exchange Telegraph Company to wire me anything of importance during my stay here.”

“You are always so good,” she said.

Then he took pity on Sarah’s impatience, and left the little worshipper to the interview with her idol which she so earnestly desired.

“I will go and pay my respects to my cousins,” said John.

But the banqueting-hall was deserted, and gaps in the row of clogs and goloshes suggested that the old ladies were taking a morning stroll.  They had not thought it proper to drive, save in a close carriage, since their brother’s death; and on such a warm day of spring weather a close carriage was not inviting to country-bred people.

CHAPTER VIII

John took his hat and stepped out once more upon the drive, and there met Dr. Blundell, who had left his dog-cart at the stables, and was walking up to the house.

He did not pause to analyze the sentiment of slight annoyance which clouded his usual good humour; but Dr. Blundell divined it, with the quickness of an ultra-sensitive nature.  He showed no signs that he had done so.

“It was you I came to see,” he said, shaking hands with John.  “I heard—­you know how quickly news spreads here—­that you had arrived.  I hoped you might spare me a few moments for a little conversation.”

“Certainly,” said John.  “Will you come in, or shall we take a turn?”

“You will be glad of a breath of fresh air after your journey,” said the doctor, and he led the way across the south terrace, to a sheltered corner of the level plateau upon which the house was built, which was known as the fountain garden.

It was rather a deserted garden, thickly surrounded and overgrown by shrubs.  Through the immense spreading Portuguese laurels which sheltered it from the east, little or no sunshine found its way to the grey, moss-grown basin and the stone figures supporting it; over which a thin stream of water continually flowed with a melancholy rhythm, in perpetual twilight.