“He shall not sleep there another night, neither will I,” said Harold, in a calm voice, but with such a gleam in his eyes as I had seen when he fell on Bullock.

It had at least the effect of reducing Eustace to his old habit of subordination, and he fell into an agony of “No, I did not mean that, and—­” stammering out something in excuse about not liking the servants and all to think he was harbouring a returned convict.

I had taken care of that.  I knew how “that that there Fotsky” was the ogre of the riots, and I had guarded against his identification by speaking of our guest as the foreign gentleman who had come home with Mr. Harold, and causing him to be called Count Stanislas; and, on hearing this, Eustace became so urgent in his entreaties, that Harold, though much hurt, relented so far as to promise at any rate to remain till Monday, so that Dora should not detect the offence.

We saw the happy pair off, among the old shoes, to spend some months abroad, while the old house was revivified for them, and then we had our own drive home, which was chiefly occupied with Dora, who, sitting on Harold’s knee, seemed to expect her full rescue from all grievances, and was terribly disappointed to find that he had no power to remove her from her durance in the London school-room, where she was plainly the dunce and the black sheep, a misery to herself and all concerned, hating everyone and disliked by all.  To the little maiden of the Bush, only half tamed as yet, the London school-room and walks in the park were penance in themselves, and the company of three steady prim girls, in the idealess state produced by confinement to a school-room, and nothing but childish books, was as distasteful to her as she was shocking to them, and her life was one warfare with them and with their Fraulein.  The only person she seemed able to endure was Nessy Horsman, who was allowed to haunt his cousin Randal’s house, and who delighted in shocking the decorous monotony of the trio of sisters, finding the vehement little Australian far more entertaining, while, whether he teased or stimulated her, she found him the least uncongenial being she met in Paddington.  But what struck me most was the manner in which Harold spoke to her, not merely spoiling her, and giving her her own way, as if he were only a bigger child, but saying “It will all get better, Dora, if you only try to do your best.”

“I haven’t got any best to do.”

“Everybody has.”

“But I don’t want it to be better.  I want to be with you and Lucy.”

Then came some reasoning about impossibilities, too low for me to hear in the noise of the wheels, but ending with “It is only another thing to conquer.  You can conquer anything if you only try, and pray to God to help you.”

“I haven’t said my prayers since I went away.  They ordered me, and said I was wicked; but you don’t, Harold, do you?” she cried triumphantly, little expecting the groan she met in answer, “Yes, indeed I do, Dora.  I only wish I had done so sooner.”