My lady glanced over her shoulder, and greeted her son with a bright, loving smile.  He was her darling and her pride—­her earthly idol—­the last of the Kingslands.

“Good-morning, Everard!  I thought you would have done Mildred and myself the honor of breakfasting with us.  Perhaps it is not too late yet.  May I offer you a cup of chocolate?”

“Not at all too late, mother mine.  I accept your offer and your chocolate on the spot.  Milly, good-morning!  You are white as your dress!  What is the matter?”

“Mildred is fading away to a shadow of late,” his mother said.  “I must take her to the sea-shore for change.”

“When?” asked Sir Everard.

“Let me see.  Ah! when you are married, I think.  What time did you come home last night, and how is Lady Louise?”

“Lady Louise is very well.  My good mother”—­half laughing—­“are you very anxious for a daughter-in-law at Kingsland to quarrel with?”

“I shall not quarrel with Lady Louise.”

“Then, willy-nilly, it must be Lord Carteret’s daughter, and no other?”

“Everard,” his mother said, earnestly, “you know I have set my heart on seeing Lady Louise your wife; and she loves you, I know.  And you, my darling Everard—­you will not disappoint me?”

“I should be an ungrateful wretch if I did!  Rest easy, ma mere—­Lady Louise shall become Lady Kingsland, or the fault shall not be mine.  I believed I should have asked the momentous little question last night but for that interloper, George Grosvenor!”

“Ah! jealous, of course.  He is always de trop, that great, stupid George,” my lady said.  “And was the dinner-party agreeable; and what time did you get home?”

“The dinner-party was delightful, and I came home shortly after midnight.  What time Sir Galahad arrived I can’t say—­half an hour before I did, at least.”

Lady Kingsland looked inquiringly.

“Did you not ride Sir Galahad?”

“Yes, until I was torn from the saddle!  My dear mother, I met with an adventure last night, and you had like never to see your precious son again.”

“Everard!”

“Quite true.  But for the direct interposition of Providence, in the shape of a handsome lad in velveteen, who shot my assailant, I would be lying now in Brithlow Wood yonder, as dead as any Kingsland in the family vault.”

And then, while Lady Kingsland gazed at him breathlessly, Sir Everard related his midnight adventure.

“Good heavens!” my lady cried, clasping him in her arms.  “Oh, to think what might have happened!  My boy—­my boy!”

“Very true, mother; but a miss is as good as a mile, you know.  Poetical justice befell my assailant; and here I am safe and sound, sipping chocolate.”

“And the preserver of your life, Everard—­where is he?”

“Upstairs, waiting like patience on a monument; and by the same token, fasting all this time!  But it isn’t a he, ma mere; it’s a she.”