Crossjay surprised him again by petulantly saying:  “Don’t.”

The boy added:  “I don’t want to talk, except about birds and things.  What a jolly morning it is!  I saw the sun rise.  No rain to-day.  You’re right about hungry, Doctor Corney!”

The kindly little man swung his whip.  Crossjay informed him of his disgrace at the Hall, and of every incident connected with it, from the tramp to the baronet, save Miss Middleton’s adventure and the night scene in the drawing-room.  A strong smell of something left out struck Dr. Corney, and he said:  “You’ll not let Miss Middleton know of my affection.  After all, it’s only a little bit of love.  But, as Patrick said to Kathleen, when she owned to such a little bit, ’that’s the best bit of all!’ and he was as right as I am about hungry.”

Crossjay scorned to talk of loving, he declared.  “I never tell Miss Middleton what I feel.  Why, there’s Miss Dale’s cottage!”

“It’s nearer to your empty inside than my mansion,” said the doctor, “and we’ll stop just to inquire whether a bed’s to be had for you there to-night, and if not, I’ll have you with me, and bottle you, and exhibit you, for you’re a rare specimen.  Breakfast you may count on from Mr. Dale.  I spy a gentleman.”

“It’s Colonel De Craye.”

“Come after news of you.”

“I wonder!”

“Miss Middleton sends him; of course she does.”

Crossjay turned his full face to the doctor.  “I haven’t seen her for such a long time!  But he saw me last night, and he might have told her that, if she’s anxious.—­Good-morning, colonel.  I’ve had a good walk, and a capital drive, and I’m as hungry as the boat’s crew of Captain Bligh.”

He jumped down.

The colonel and the doctor saluted, smiling.

“I’ve rung the bell,” said De Craye.

A maid came to the gate, and upon her steps appeared Miss Dale, who flung herself at Crossjay, mingling kisses and reproaches.  She scarcely raised her face to the colonel more than to reply to his greeting, and excuse the hungry boy for hurrying indoors to breakfast.

“I’ll wait,” said De Craye.  He had seen that she was paler than usual.  So had Dr. Corney; and the doctor called to her concerning her father’s health.  She reported that he had not yet risen, and took Crossjay to herself.

“That’s well,” said the doctor, “if the invalid sleeps long.  The lady is not looking so well, though.  But ladies vary; they show the mind on the countenance, for want of the punching we meet with to conceal it; they’re like military flags for a funeral or a gala; one day furled, and next day streaming.  Men are ships’ figure-heads, about the same for a storm or a calm, and not too handsome, thanks to the ocean.  It’s an age since we encountered last, colonel:  on board the Dublin boat, I recollect, and a night it was.”

“I recollect that you set me on my legs, doctor.”