Troubles were coming, indeed, so thick and fast that my mind was in a confusion.  I did not know whether to tell my godmother or not what I had overheard.  She had a straight way of going to the root of things.  Supposing that she did as she had threatened, and went to Dawson himself for the truth, might she not exasperate him into making public the thing which had so much power to frighten Lord and Lady St. Leger?  I had gathered that there was disgrace hanging over us, disgrace, and homelessness for Theobald and me.  Aghadoe Abbey was dear to us as flesh and blood.  Was it possible that it could pass away from us into the possession of the Dawsons?  Why, I would a thousand times rather that fire had it and that it should be consumed to ashes.

It should have been a small thing by comparison that my grandfather had said I was to go to the Dawsons’ dinner-party, but I had so violent an aversion to going that the matter really bulked large in the list of troubles.  I should not mind so much if Richard Dawson were not present, and of course it might be that already he had found us too dull and had gone away on his wanderings.

But this little hope of mine was destined very soon to be extinguished.

I have not said that old Dido was with me, but, since she was my constant companion this was to be expected.  She had followed me to the glade, and was lying with her head on the end of my skirt, at peace, since she was with me.  Away from me or my grandmother or Miss Champion she would whimper and shiver like a lonely old ghost in a world of living things.

Suddenly as I sat there, thinking, she crept close to me with a low growl.  I had not heard a sound except the songs of the birds and the stir of the south wind in the leaves that was like the placid flowing of waters.  I put my hand on her head and she bristled under my hand, but she was quiet.  She would always be quiet with my hand upon her head.

I wondered if it were a wild cat or a weazel or a stoat that had so excited her.  But I was not long in suspense.  There came a murmur of voices and a man’s laugh.  Then there were footsteps.  I had a vague alarm.  Who could it be that walked in our woods and set Dido bristling?  She was a gentle creature and knew her friends; and the people about were all kind and friendly to “Master Luke’s” old dog.

I threw a fold of my skirt over her head to keep her from hearing, and, with my hand on her collar, I moved as close as I could to the leafy screen that separated the glade from the wood-path.

There was a couple coming up the path; presently they were in my view, and I saw to my grief and amazement that the man was Richard Dawson—­I had known it, indeed, from the first—­and the girl who walked with him was Nora Brady, the pretty little girl who had interested me at Araglin Creamery.  Richard Dawson walked with his arm about her.  She was looking up at him as though she adored him.  Just as they passed he bent his head and kissed her and again I heard him laugh.  The laugh made me hate him, if possible, more than ever.