“Very middling, indeed! last time I was away the servants gave a ball in the new ballroom—­so my friends told me afterward, and the time before, the butler took the housekeeper a driving-tour in my T.-cart.  I should not have minded that much—­but I suppose he was not a very good whip, and so he threw down one of my best horses, and broke his knees!”

“Well, they shall not give a ball!” say I, resolutely, “but”—­(in a tone of melancholy helplessness)—­“they may throw down all the horses, for any thing I can do to prevent them!  A horse’s knees would have to be very much broken before I should perceive that they were!”

“You must get Algy to help you,” he says, kindly.  “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, is not it?  Poor boy!”—­(laughing)—­“You must not expect him to be very keen about my speedy return.”

As he speaks, an arrow of animosity toward Algy shoots through my heart.

We are at Tempest—­Sir Roger and I. It has been his wish to establish me there before his departure; and now it is the gray of the evening before his setting off, and we are strolling through the still park.  Vick is racing, with idiotic ardor, through the tall green bracken, after the mottled deer, yelping with shrill insanity, and vainly imagining that she is going to overtake them.  The gray rabbits are scuttling across the grass rides in the pale light:  as I see them popping in and out of their holes, I cannot help thinking of Bobby.  Apparently, Sir Roger also is reminded of him.

“Nancy,” he says, looking down at me with a smile of recollected entertainment, “have you forgiven Bobby yet for leaving you sitting on the wall?  I remember, in the first blaze of your indignation, you vowed that never should he fire a gun in your preserves!—­do you still stick to it, or have you forgiven him?”

“That I have not!” cry I, heartily.  “None of them shall shoot any thing!  Why should they?  Every thing shall be kept for you against you come back!”

He raises his eyebrows a little.

“Rabbits and all?”

“Rabbits and all!” reply I, firmly.

“And what will the farmers say?” asks Sir Roger, smiling.

I have not considered this aspect of the question, so remain silent.  We walk on without speaking for some moments.  The deer, in lofty pity for Vick, have stopped to allow her to get nearer to them.  With their fine noses in the air, and their proud necks compassionately turned toward her, they are waiting, while she pushes, panting and shrieking, through the stout fern-stems; then, leap cruelly away in airy bounds.

“If I am not back by Christmas—­” says Sir Roger, presently.

“By Christmas!” interrupt I, aghast, “one, two, three, four, five months—­but you must!—­you MUST!” clasping both hands on his arm.

“I hope I shall, certainly,” replies he; “but one never knows what may happen!  If I am not—­”