“The years I mean are not to be measured by the ordinary standard; even you must know that some years last longer—­no, that is not the expression—­press heavier than others.”

“Even I?  Do you think I am specially matter-of-fact?”

“I have no right to think you anything, for I do not know you; but you give me that impression.”

“I dare say I am; nor do I see why I should object to be so considered.”

Here Cecil, who got tired of a conversation from which he could gather nothing, put in his oar:  “Are you Mr. Errington?”

“I am.  How do you know my name?”

“I saw you going out with the Colonel to the meet—­oh, a long while ago!  And Miss Richards and nurse were talking about you.”

“They said you had a real St. Bernard dog—­one that gets the people out of the snow,” cried Charlie.  “Will you let him come here?  I want to see him.”

“You had better come and pay him a visit.”

“Oh yes, thank you!” exclaimed Cis.  “Auntie will take us, perhaps.  Auntie will take us to the sea-side, and then we shall bathe, and go in boats, and learn to row.”

“Cis, run with me to that big tree at the foot of the hill.  Auntie will carry the basket,” cried Charlie, and the next moment they were off.

“Fine little fellows,” said Errington.  “I like children.”

“I am going to ask Mrs. Ormonde to lend them to me for a few months, for they are all I have of kith or kin.”

“They are not at all like you,” returned Errington, letting his quiet, but to her most embarrassing, eyes rest upon her face.

“Yet they are my only brother’s children.”  Here Katherine paused with a sense of relief; they had reached a stile where a footway led across some fields and a piece of common overgrown with bracken and gorse.  It was the short-cut to Castleford, by which Cecil had led her to the Melford Woods.

“Oh, do come round by the road, auntie,” he exclaimed; “perhaps Mr. Errington will let me ride his horse.”

“I do not know if he will, Cis, but I certainly will not.  I am tired too, dear, and want to get home the shortest way I can, so bid Mr. Errington good-by, and come with me.  No, don’t shake hands; yours are much too dirty.”

“Never mind; when you are a big boy I’ll give you a mount.  Good by, Master Charlie—­you are Charlie, are you not?  Till we meet at dinner, Miss Liddell.”  He raised his hat, and divining that she wished him to let her get over the stile unassisted, he mounted his horse and rode swiftly away.

“I am sure he would have given me a ride if you had gone by the road, auntie,” said Cecil, reproachfully.

“I could not have allowed, you, dear; so do not think about it.”  Errington meanwhile rode on, unconsciously slackening his pace as he mused.  “No, she certainly has never seen me before, yet she knows me.  How?  She was very glad to get rid of me just now.  Why?  I am inoffensive enough.  There is something uncommon about her; she gives me the idea of having a history, which is anything but desirable for a young woman.  What fine eyes she has!  She is something like that Sibyl of Guercino’s in the Capitol.  Why does she object to me?  It is rather absurd.  I must make her talk, then I shall find out.”