Harry had been full of the story of the day at the dinner-table, where he still continued to present himself; for his father would not be satisfied without him.  It was certainly good moral training for the boy, to sit there almost without eating; and none the worse that he found it rather hard sometimes.  He talked much more freely now, and asked the servants for anything he wanted without referring to Euphra.  Now and then he would glance at her, as if afraid of offending her; but the cords which bound him to her were evidently relaxing; and she saw it plainly enough, though she made no reference to the unpleasing fact.

“I am only a little fearful, uncle, lest Mr. Sutherland should urge the boy to do more than his strength will admit of.  He is exceedingly kind to him, but he has evidently never known what weakness is himself.”

“True, there is danger of that.  But you see he has taken him so entirely into his own hands.  I don’t seem to be allowed a word in the matter of his education any more.”  Mr. Arnold spoke with the peevishness of weak importance.  “I wish you would take care that he does not carry things too far, Euphra.”

This was just what Euphra wanted.

“I think, if you do not disapprove, uncle, I will have Fatima saddled to-morrow morning, and go with them myself.”

“Thank you, my love; I shall be much obliged to you.”  The glass of claret was soon finished after this.  A little more conversation about nothing followed, and Euphra rose the second time, and returned to the drawing-room.  She found it unoccupied.  She sat down to the piano, and sang song after song—­Scotch, Italian, and Bohemian.  But Hugh did not make his appearance.  The fact was, he was busy writing to his mother, whom he had rather neglected since he came.  Writing to her made him think of David, and he began a letter to him too; but it was never finished, and never sent.  He did not return to the drawing-room that evening.  Indeed, except for a short time, while Mr. Arnold was drinking his claret, he seldom showed himself there.  Had Euphra repelled him too much—­hurt him?  She would make up for it to-morrow.

Breakfast was scarcely over, when the chestnut and the pony passed the window, accompanied by a lovely little Arab mare, broad-chested and light-limbed, with a wonderfully small head.  She was white as snow, with keen, dark eyes.  Her curb-rein was red instead of white.  Hearing their approach, and begging her uncle to excuse her, Euphra rose from the table, and left the room; but re-appeared in a wonderfully little while, in a well-fitted riding-habit of black velvet, with a belt of dark red leather clasping a waist of the roundest and smallest.  Her little hat, likewise black, had a single long, white feather, laid horizontally within the upturned brim, and drooping over it at the back.  Her white mare would be just the right pedestal for the dusky figure—­black eyes, tawny skin, and all.  As she stood ready