“From Miss Hunsden,” she said, contemptuously.  “She repents her hasty decision, no doubt, and sends to tell him so.  Bold, designing creature!  Find Sir Everard’s valet, Miss Silver, and give it to him.”

Sir Everard was in his dressing-room, and his pale face flushed deep red as he received the note.  He tore it open and literally devoured the contents.

DEAR SIR EVERARD,—­Please, please, please forgive me!  Oh, I am so sorry I laughed and made you angry!  But indeed I thought you only meant it as a joke.  Two days is such a little while to be acquainted before proposing, you know.  Won’t you come to see us again?  Papa has asked for you several times.  Pray pardon me.  You would if you knew how penitent I am.

    Yours remorsefully,
        HARRIE HUNSDEN.

Hunsden Hall, Nov. 15th, 18—.

He read the piteous, childish little letter over and over again until his face glowed.  Hope planted her shining foot once more on the baronet’s heart.

“I will go at once,” he said, hiding the little note very near his heart.  “Common courtesy requires me to say farewell before I start for Constantinople.  And the captain likes me, and his influence is all-powerful with her, and who knows—­”

He did not finish the mental sentence.  He rapidly completed his toilet, ordered his horse, and set off hot foot.

Of course, all the short cuts came in requisition.  The path through Brithlow Wood was the path he took, going at full gallop.  Lost in a deliciously hopeful reverie, he was half-way through, when a hollow groan from the wayside smote his ear.

“For God’s sake, help a dying man!”

The baronet stared around aghast.  Right before him, under the trees, lay the prostrate figure of a fallen man.  To leap off his horse, to bend over him, was but the work of an instant.  Judge of his dismay when he beheld the livid, discolored face of Captain Hunsden.

“Great Heaven!  Captain Hunsden!  What horrible accident is this?”

“Sir Everard,” he murmured, in a thick, choking tone, “go—­tell Harrie—­poor Harrie—­”

His voice died away.

“Were you thrown from your horse?  Were you waylaid?” asked the young man, thinking of his own recent adventure.

“One of those apoplectic attacks.  I was thrown.  Tell Harrie—­”

Again the thick, guttural accents failed.

Sir Everard raised his head, and knelt for a moment bewildered.  How should he leave him here alone while he went in search of a conveyance?

Just then, as if sent by Providence, the Reverend Cyrus Green, in his chaise, drove into the woodland path.

“Heaven be praised!” cried the baronet.  “I was wondering what I should do.  A dreadful accident has happened, Mr. Green.  Captain Hunsden has had a fall, and is very ill.”

The rector got out, in consternation, and bent above the prostrate man.  The captain’s face had turned a dull, livid hue, his eyes had closed, his breathing came hoarse and thick.