“Yes.  Beyond their house, there lies, along the river, a swamp of no great extent, which ought to have been drained long ago.  Beyond that, on the edge of the bush, is a large saw-mill, and the families of the men employed at this mill live in shanties close by.  Every spring and autumn the sickness among them is terrible, and sometimes there are bad cases all through the summer.  But you may imagine what it is among those people in their wretched damp, unventilated homes, when even the Baynes suffer as poor little Nina is doing now, and did most of the spring.”

“Delightful country!” said Mr. Percy, “and people positively like to live here.”

“Yes!” replied Mrs. Bellairs, with spirit, “and with good cause.  As for what I have been telling you, has not England been quite as bad?  I have heard that in Lincolnshire, and the adjoining counties, not a lifetime ago, ague was as prevalent as in our worst districts.  The same means which destroyed it there, will do so here; the work is half accomplished already, for this very road on which we are driving was, twenty years ago, little better than a bog along which it was not safe for a horse to pass.”

“Wonderful energy your people must have, certainly.  Where are we going next?”

Mrs. Bellairs was provoked.  She was an ardent lover of her country; and to talk of its advantages and disadvantages with an interested companion was to her a keen pleasure; the intense indifference of Mr. Percy’s reply, therefore, made her regard him for a moment with anything but goodwill.  She gave Bob a sharp “flick” with her whip, and paused a minute before answering; when she did speak, it was with a little malice.

“I suppose you have not yet had time to call on Maurice Leigh?  I can take you there now if you like.  I often go to see old Mr. Leigh.”

“Thank you.  I saw young Leigh just now at William’s office.”

“I am going to the Cottage then, that is, Mrs. Costello’s.”

They were almost at the turning of the lane as she spoke, and directly after came in sight of the pretty low house, standing in a perfect nest of green.  They stopped at the gate; and Margery, a decent middle-aged woman, immediately came out to open it.  She took hold of the pony like an old acquaintance, and fastened him to a post in such a way that he could amuse himself by nibbling the grass which grew along the little-frequented path; then smoothing down her white apron, ushered the visitors into the parlour.  The room was very dark, the Venetian shutters being closed and blinds drawn down to keep out the glare and heat of the day, but the flicker of a white dress on the verandah showed where the two ladies were to be found.  Mrs. Bellairs stepped out, and was greeted by a cry of delight from Lucia.

“Oh, you are good!  Is Bella here?”

“Bella is gone to the Scotts’, but Mr. Percy is with me.”

Lucia grew demure instantly, as the second guest came forward.  “Mamma is there,” she said, and made room for them to pass along the verandah.