She half rose, as if about to descend from the carriage.  Elgar laid his hand on her arm, and clutched it so strongly that she sank back and regarded him with a look of anger.

“Miriam!  Do as I wish, dear.  Be kind to me for this once.  If you refuse, it will make no difference.  Have some feeling for me.  This one day, Miriam.”

Again she looked at him, and reflected.  On account of the driver, though of course he could not understand them, they had subdued their voices, and Reuben’s sudden action had not been noticeable.

“This one piece of sisterly kindness,” he pleaded.

“It shall be as you wish,” Miriam replied, her face cast down.

“Thank you, a thousand times.  Avanti, cocchiere!”

Scrutiny less keen than Miriam’s could perceive that Cecily had not her usual pleasure in to-day’s expedition.  Even Mrs. Bradshaw, sitting over against her in the carriage, noticed that the girl’s countenance lacked its natural animation, wore now and then a tired look; the lids hung a little heavily over the beautiful eyes, and the cheeks were a thought pale.  When she forgot herself in conversation, Cecily was the same as ever; mirthful, brightly laughing, fervent in expressing delight; but her thoughts too often made her silent, and then one saw that she was not heart and soul in the present.  It was another Cecily than on that day at Baiae.  “She has been over-exciting herself since she came here,” was Mrs. Bradshaw’s mental remark.  Miriam, anxiously observant, made a different interpretation, and was harassed with a painful conflict of thoughts.

Jacob Bush Bradshaw had no eyes for these trivialities.  He sat in the squared posture of a hearty Englishman, amusing himself with everything they passed on the road self-congratulant on the knowledge and experience he had been storing, joking as often as he spoke.

“The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come with us to-day,” he said, about midway in the drive.  “What precious mischief we could have made by asking him, Hannah!”

“There’s no room for him, fortunately.”

“Oh yes; up on the box.”

His eye twinkled as he looked at Cecily.  She questioned him.

“Where would be the mischief, Mr. Bradshaw?”

“He talks nonsense, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Bradshaw.  “Pay no attention to him.”

Miriam had heard now and then of Clifford Marsh.  She met Jacob’s smile, and involuntarily checked it by her gravity.

“We might have asked the Denyers as well,” said Cecily, “and have had another carriage, or gone by train.”

Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his wife would not allow him to pursue the jest.