it to the multitude of just antagonisms whereof it came.  It has passed by large accumulation into a sombre and speechless load upon the senses, and fresh evidence, the smallest item, is a champion to speak for it.  Being about to do wrong, she grasped at this eagerly, and brooded on the little of vital and truthful that there was in the man and how he corrupted the boy.  Nevertheless, she instinctively imitated Crossjay in an almost sparkling salute to him.

“Good-morning, Willoughby; it was not a morning to lose:  have you been out long?”

He retained her hand.  “My dear Clara! and you, have you not overfatigued yourself?  Where have you been?”

“Round—­everywhere!  And I am certainly not tired.”

“Only you and Crossjay?  You should have loosened the dogs.”

“Their barking would have annoyed the house.”

“Less than I am annoyed to think of you without protection.”

He kissed her fingers:  it was a loving speech.

“The household . . .” said Clara, but would not insist to convict him of what he could not have perceived.

“If you outstrip me another morning, Clara, promise me to take the dogs; will you?”

“Yes.”

“To-day I am altogether yours.”

“Are you?”

“From the first to the last hour of it!—­So you fall in with Horace’s humour pleasantly?”

“He is very amusing.”

“As good as though one had hired him.”

“Here comes Colonel De Craye.”

“He must think we have hired him!”

She noticed the bitterness of Willoughby’s tone.  He sang out a good-morning to De Craye, and remarked that he must go to the stables.

“Darleton?  Darleton, Miss Middleton?” said the colonel, rising from his bow to her:  “a daughter of General Darleton?  If so, I have had the honour to dance with her.  And have not you?—­practised with her, I mean; or gone off in a triumph to dance it out as young ladies do?  So you know what a delightful partner she is.”

“She is!” cried Clara, enthusiastic for her succouring friend, whose letter was the treasure in her bosom.

“Oddly, the name did not strike me yesterday, Miss Middleton.  In the middle of the night it rang a little silver bell in my ear, and I remembered the lady I was half in love with, if only for her dancing.  She is dark, of your height, as light on her feet; a sister in another colour.  Now that I know her to be your friend . . . !”

“Why, you may meet her, Colonel De Craye.”

“It’ll be to offer her a castaway.  And one only meets a charming girl to hear that she’s engaged!  ’Tis not a line of a ballad, Miss Middleton, but out of the heart.”

“Lucy Darleton . . .  You were leading me to talk seriously to you, Colonel De Craye.”