‘Well, be just,’ he replied, laughing; ’did not I go next day and see the patient?’

’Yes; next day you went by the same route—­in quest of the dryads, I am afraid—­and were rewarded by the spectacle of Mother Hubbard.’

‘Will nobody help a humane man in difficulties?’ Mr. Carysbroke appealed.

‘I do believe,’ said the lady whom as yet I knew only as Mary, ’that every word that Monica says is perfectly true.’

’And if it be so, am I not all the more in need of help?  Truth is simply the most dangerous kind of defamation, and I really think I’m most cruelly persecuted.’

At this moment dinner was announced, and a meek and dapper little clergyman, with smooth pink cheeks, and tresses parted down the middle, whom I had not seen before, emerged from shadow.

This little man was assigned to Milly, Mr. Carysbroke to me, and I know not how the remaining ladies divided the doctor between them.

That dinner, the first at Elverston, I remember as a very pleasant repast.  Everyone talked—­it was impossible that conversation should flag where Lady Knollys was; and Mr. Carysbroke was very agreeable and amusing.  At the other side of the table, the little pink curate, I was happy to see, was prattling away, with a modest fluency, in an under-tone to Milly, who was following my instructions most conscientiously, and speaking in so low a key that I could hardly hear at the opposite side one word she was saying.

That night Cousin Monica paid us a visit, as we sat chatting by the fire in our room; and I told her—­

’I have just been telling Milly what an impression she has made.  The pretty little clergyman—­il en est epris—­he has evidently quite lost his heart to her.  I dare say he’ll preach next Sunday on some of King Solomon’s wise sayings about the irresistible strength of women.’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Knollys,’ or maybe on the sensible text, “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour,” and so forth.  At all events, I may say, Milly, whoso findeth a husband such as he, findeth a tolerably good thing.  He is an exemplary little creature, second son of Sir Harry Biddlepen, with a little independent income of his own, beside his church revenues of ninety pounds a year; and I don’t think a more harmless and docile little husband could be found anywhere; and I think, Miss Maud, you seemed a good deal interested, too.’

I laughed and blushed, I suppose; and Cousin Monica, skipping after her wont to quite another matter, said in her odd frank way—­

’And how has Silas been?—­not cross, I hope, or very odd.  There was a rumour that your brother, Dudley, had gone a soldiering to India, Milly, or somewhere; but that was all a story, for he has turned up, just as usual.  And what does he mean to do with himself?  He has got some money now—­your poor father’s will, Maud.  Surely he doesn’t mean to go on lounging and