‘This is too exhausting!’ muttered Mr Gwynne, sinking back in his chair.  ’Freda, you really do talk too much.  Will you ring for Perkins?  I must take a dose of that cordial.’

When the cordial was mentioned, Freda knew that all conversation was at an end.  She rang the bell, and when Perkins came, left the room.

She went at once to her writing desk, and wrote the following note:—­

’MY DEAREST SERENA,—­What you and I have sometimes feared is about to come to pass.  My father is going to marry Lady Mary Nugent.  Of course I can no longer live here; will you and Mr Jones give me shelter for a time whilst I arrange my thoughts and plans?  I will give as little trouble as I can, but I know you will bear with me.—­Your loving friend,

    ‘WINIFRED GWYNNE.’

Freda sealed and directed her letter, and then went to the open window, and stood there for some time.  A slight shower of rain was falling and a few light clouds were struggling with the afternoon sunbeams.  Strong shadows fell from the trees in the Park, equally strong lights were on the distant hills.  The river looked hot and hazy, and the cattle had congregated under the arch of the bridge—­the only cool spot—­as if for shelter from the sun.  A shrill, blithe, distant whistle sounded, and the bells of Llanfawr church pealed in the far-away town, just sending their faint echoes across the river.

‘What are those bells ringing for?’ said Freda, as she wiped away some large tears that were gathering in her eyes.  ’They ring for everything; soon it will be for these odious marriages.  Why was I ever born?  Why, above all, was I born in such a place as this?  And to leave it!  Yes, Frisk’ (to her terrier, that was barking and jumping outside the window), ’you and I must go away.  No more quarrels with Jerry; no more fights with Gelert?; no more hunts in the brook.  Will you come with me to smoky London?  Yes, and hate it as much as I shall.  Sleep away your life by a city fire, and grow fat and old, instead of racing after me and Prince.  But we shall not live long in a town, Frisk.  We shall soon die of sheer laziness, and so much the better—­for who will care for us?  Lion and Jerry and even Gipsy will forget you; and every one has forgotten me already.  Why am I so foolish as to cry so?  I never knew how weak I could be until these last few days.  But we must be strong, Frisk—­we must be strong, and not care for this old place, and the beautiful park, and all the—­oh, why will those bells ring? and what are they ringing for?  And there is the dinner-bell, too, harsh as my lot.  And I must try to be dutiful, and show a bold face and good courage to the world, who will pity me, or rejoice over me, and say that I wanted something to pull down my pride.  And so, perhaps, I do; but this shall not be the something.  No, no; it shall only make me prouder.  Poor papa, too; he will be more wretched than I—­I am sure he will.  I cannot bear to think of him.  Frisk!  Frisk! don’t make such a noise.  Don’t jump so, Frisk.  There!  I will take you in.  Good dog! good Frisk!  You love me if no one else does; you and Gladys.’