‘I am only too glad that you should find refuge in the old place.’

He wheeled a couple of ponderous carved-oak chairs close to the hearth, and begged us to sit there; but Milly preferred standing in the noble old gothic window looking out at the rain.

‘They will be getting anxious about us at home,’ she said, ’if we are not back before dark.’

’I wish I possessed a close carriage to place at your service.  I do, indeed, boast of the ownership of a dog-cart, if you would not be afraid of driving in such a barbarous vehicle when the rain is over.  It would keep you out of the mud, at any rate.’

Milly laughed gaily.

‘I have been brought up in the country,’ she said, ’and am not at all afraid of driving in a dog-cart.  I used often to go out with papa in his, before he married.’

’Then, when the storm is over, I shall have the pleasure of driving you to Thornleigh, if you will permit me that honour.’

Milly looked a little perplexed at this, and made some excuse about not wishing to cause so much trouble.

‘I really think we could walk home very well; don’t you, Mary?’ she said; and I declared myself quite equal to the walk.

’It would be impossible for you to get back to Thornleigh before dark,’ the gentleman remonstrated.  ’I shall be quite offended if you refuse the use of my dog-cart, and insist on getting wet feet.  I daresay your feet are wet as it is, by the bye.’

We assured him of the thickness of our boots, and gave our shawls to Mrs. Mills the old housekeeper, who carried them off to be dried in the kitchen, and promised to convey the order about the dog-cart to the stables immediately.

I had time now to look at our new acquaintance, who was standing with his shoulders against one angle of the high oak mantelpiece, watching the rain beating against a window opposite to him.  I had no difficulty in recognising the original of that portrait which Augusta Darrell had looked at so strangely.  He was much older than when the portrait had been taken—­ten years at the least, I thought.  In the picture he looked little more than twenty, and I should have guessed him now to be on the wrong side of thirty.

He was handsome still, but the dark powerful face had a sort of rugged look, the heavy eyebrows overshadowed the sombre black eyes, a thick fierce-looking moustache shrouded the mouth, but could not quite conceal an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, that lurked about the lowered corners of the full firm lips.  He looked like a man whose past life held some sad or sinful history.

I could fancy, as I looked at him, that last bitter interview with his mother, and I could imagine how hard and cruel such a man might be under the influence of an unpardonable wrong.  Like Mrs. Darrell, I was inclined to place myself on the side of the unfortunate lovers, rather than on that of the mother, who had been willing to sacrifice her son’s happiness to her pride of race.