culled from the pages of Charlotte Yonge.  A narrow, purely personal view inevitably embodies an order of logic calculated to carry conviction; and Theresa, even in defeat, retained a degree of self-opinionated astuteness.  She presented her case effectively.  To be discharged, and that in disgrace, to be rendered homeless, cast upon the world at a moment’s notice, for that which—­with but trifling, almost unconscious, manipulation of fact—­could be made to appear as nothing worse than a venial error of judgment, did really sound and seem most unduly drastic punishment.

Miss Verity’s first instinct was to fling herself into the breech; and, directly her brother emerged from his room, demand for her protegee redress and reinstatement.  Her second instinct was—­she didn’t, in truth, quite know what—­for she grew sadly perplexed as she listened.

Her sympathy, in fact, split into three inconveniently distinct and separate streams.  Of these Theresa’s woes still claimed the widest and deepest, since with Theresa she was in immediate and intimate contact.  Yet the other two began to show a quite respectable volume and current, as she pictured Damaris marooned on the Bar and Sir Charles ravished away from the seasonable obligation of partridge shooting to take his place at his daughter’s bedside.

“But this young Captain Faircloth, of whom you speak,” she presently said, her mind taking one of its many inconsequent skippits—­“who so providentially came to the dearest child’s assistance—­could he, I wonder, be the same really very interesting-looking young man I met in the drive, just now, when I came here?”

And Miss Verity described him, while a pretty stain of colour illuminated her cheek once more.

“You think quite possibly yes?—­How I wish I had known that at the time.  I would certainly have stopped and expressed my gratitude to him.  Such a mercy he was at hand!—­Poor dearest Damaris!  I hope his good offices have already been acknowledged.  Do you know if my brother has seen and thanked him?”

The expression of Theresa’s round little face, still puffy and blotched from her last night’s weeping, held a world of reproachful remindings.

“Ah! no,” the other cried conscience-stricken—­“no, of course not.  How thoughtless of me to ask you.  And”—­another mental skippit—­“and that you should be forbidden the sick-room too, not permitted to nurse Damaris!  My poor friend, indeed I do feel for you.  I so well understand that must have caused you more pain than anything.”

A remark her hearer found it not altogether easy to counter with advantage to her own cause, so wisely let it pass in silence.

“I know—­I know, you can hardly trust yourself to speak of it.  I am so grieved—­so very grieved.  But one must be practical.  I think you are wise to yield without further protest.  I will sound my brother—­just find out if he shows any signs of relenting.  Of course, you can understand, I ought to hear his view of the matter too—­not, that I question your account, dear friend, for one instant.  Meanwhile make all your arrangements.”