Notwithstanding the exactions of a somewhat tyrannous brain and her conviction of high responsibilities, the child, which delights to be petted, told stories and made much of, was strong in Damaris still.  This explosion of domestic wrath on her behalf proved eminently soothing.  It directed her brooding thought into nice, amusing, everyday little channels; and assured her of protective solicitude, actively on the watch, by which exaggerated shames and alarms were withered and loneliness effectually dispersed.  She felt smoothed, contented.  Fell, indeed, into something of the humour which climbs on to a friendly lap and thrones it there blissfully careless of the thousand and one ills, known and unknown, which infant flesh is heir to.  She engaged the comely comfortable woman to stay and minister further to her.

“Pour out my tea for me, Mary, please,” she said, “if you’re not busy.  But isn’t this your afternoon off, by rights?”

And Mary, while serving her, acknowledged that not only was it “by rights” her “afternoon off;” but that Mr. Patch, the coachman, had volunteered to drive her into Marychurch to see her parents when he exercised the carriage horses.  But, while thanking him very kindly, she had refused.  Was it likely, she said, she would leave the house with Sir Charles and Mr. Hordle away, and Miss Bilson taking herself off to visit friends, too?

From which Damaris gathered that, in the opinion of the servants’ hall, Theresa’s offence was rank, it stank to heaven.  She therefore, being covetous of continued contentment, turned the conversation to less controversial subjects; and, after passing notice of the fair weather, the brightness of the geraniums and kindred trivialities, successfully incited Mary to talk of Brockhurst, Sir Richard Calmady’s famous place in the north of the county, where—­prior to his retirement to his native town of Marychurch, upon a generous pension—­her father, Lomas Fisher, had for many years occupied the post of second gardener.  Here was material for story-telling to the child Damaris’ heart’s content!  For Brockhurst is rich in strange records of wealth, calamity, heroism, and sport, the inherent romance of which Mary’s artless narrative was calculated to enhance rather than dissipate.

So young mistress listened and maid recounted, until, the former fortified by cakes and tea, the two sauntered, side by side—­a tall stalwart black figure, white capped and aproned and an equally tall but slender pale pink one—­down across the lawn to the battery where the small obsolete cannon so boldly defied danger of piracy or invasion by sea.

The sun, a crimson disc, enormous in the earth-mist, sank slowly, south of west, behind the dark mass of Stone Horse Head.  The upper branches of the line of Scotch firs in the warren and, beyond them, the upper windows of the cottages and Inn caught the fiery light.  Presently a little wind, thin, perceptibly chill, drew up the river with the turning of the tide.  It fluttered Mary Fisher’s long white muslin apron strings and lifted her cap, so that she raised her hand to keep it in place upon her smooth black hair.  The romance of Brockhurst failed upon her tongue.  She grew sharply practical.