‘Yes,’ said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not successfully:  ’yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd.  I was so sorry when I heard of your grief.’

’You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had.  God’s blessing on you!  What a fine man you have grown!  Deary me!  Well, it seems as though it were only just t’other day like.’  And she pushed him a little from her, so that she might look the better into his face.

’Well.  Is it all right?  I suppose you would hardly know me again now I’ve got a pair of whiskers?’

’Know you!  I should know you well if I saw but the heel of your foot.  Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but it doesn’t curl as it used once.’  And she stroked his hair, and looked into his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks.  ’You’ll think me an old fool, Master Frank:  I know that; but you may think what you like.  If I live for the next twenty years you’ll always be my own boy; so you will.’

By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation, and to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than his own infantine perfections.  He affected an indifference as he spoke of her guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; but her it did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was.

’She’s just gone out on her donkey—­somewhere about the place.  She rides on a donkey mostly every day.  But you’ll stop and take a bit of dinner with us?  Eh, now do’ee, Master Frank.’

But Master Frank excused himself.  He did not choose to pledge himself to sit down to dinner with Mary.  He did not know in what mood they might return with regard to each other at dinner-time.  He said, therefore, that he would return to the house again before he went.

Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis.  He was an invalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not yet out of his room.

These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as his could on to the lawn.  A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to go with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne.  This assistance, however, he declined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were her most usual haunts.  Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walking about twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkey moving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him.  On that donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorne.

The donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line, but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see him if he stood still.  He did stand still, and soon emerging from the trees, Mary saw him all but close to her.

Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion.  She did not fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears.  She merely uttered the words, ‘Mr Gresham!’ in a tone of not unnatural surprise.