“I shall certainly come upon you for damages, if he breaks the neck of little Bee,” said Uncle Geoffrey.

“If I had guessed it,” said Uncle Roger; “but then, you know, any of my boys would think nothing of driving Dumple,—­even Dick I have trusted,- -and they came up—­you should have seen them—­as confidently as if he had been driving four-in-hand every day of his life.  Upon my word your daughter has a tolerable spirit of her own, if she knew that he could not drive.”

“A tolerable spirit of self-will,” said Uncle Geoffrey, with a sigh.  “But did you see them off, how did they manage?”

“Ah! why there, I must confess, I was to blame,” said his brother.  “They did clear out of the yard in a strange fashion, certainly, and I might have questioned a little closer.  But never mind, ’tis all straight road.  I would lay any wager they will come back safe,—­boys always do.”

Uncle Geoffrey smiled, but Henrietta thought it a very bad sign that he, too, looked out at the window; and the confidence founded on his tranquillity deserted her.

Uncle Roger forthwith returned to the fighting o’er again of his battles at the Board of Guardians, and Henrietta was able to get to the window, where for some ten minutes she sat, and at length exclaimed with a start, “Here is Willy running across the paddock!”

“All right!” said Uncle Roger, “they must have stopped at Sutton Leigh!”

“It is the opposite way!” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, who at the same moment stepped up to the window.  Henrietta’s heart throbbed fearfully as she saw how wearied was the boy’s running, and yet how rapid.  She could hardly stand as she followed her uncles to the hall; her mother at the same moment came downstairs, and all together met the little boy, as, breathless, exhausted, unable to speak, he rushed into the hall, and threw himself upon his father, leaning his head against him and clinging as if he could not stand.

“Why Will, how now, my boy?  Have you been racing?” said his father, kneeling on one knee, and supporting the poor little wearied fellow, as he almost lay upon his breast and shoulder.  “What is the matter now?”

There was a deep silence only interrupted by the deep pantings of the boy.  Henrietta leant on the banisters, giddy with suspense.  Uncle Geoffrey stepped into the dining-room, and brought back a glass of wine and some water.  Aunt Mary parted the damp hair that hung over his forehead, laid her cold hand on it, and said, “Poor little fellow.”

At her voice Willy looked up, clung faster to his father, and whispered something unintelligible.

“What?  Has anything happened?  What is the matter?” were questions anxiously asked, while Uncle Geoffrey in silence succeeded in administering the wine; after which Willy managed to say, pointing to his aunt,

“Don’t—­tell—­her.”

It was with a sort of ghastly composure that she leant over him, saying, “Don’t be afraid, my dear, I am ready to hear it.”