“Nine o’clock,” said Winston, at length, consulting his watch, and pushing back his chair.  “The carriage will be at the door in fifteen minutes, Mr. Chilton.  The road is heavy this morning, and the stage passes the village at ten.”

“I shall be ready,” responded Frederic.  “I am sorry your carriage and coachman must be exposed to the rain.”

“That is nothing.  They are used to it.  I never alter my plan of travel on account of the weather, how ever severe the storm.  This warm rain can hurt nobody.”

“It is pouring hard,” remarked Mrs. Button, solicitously.  “And that stage is wretchedly uncomfortable in the best weather.  I wish you could be persuaded to stay with us until it clears off, Mr. Chilton, and”—­making a bold push—­“I am sure my nephew concurs in my desire.”

“Mr. Chilton should require no verbal assurance of my hospitable feelings toward him and my other guests,” said Mr. Aylett, frigidly—­smooth as ice-cream.  “If I forbear to press him to prolong his stay, it is in reflection of the golden law laid down for the direction of hosts—­’Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.’”

“You are both very kind, but I must go,” Frederic replied, concisely and civilly, following Mabel into the parlor, whither the other visitors were fabled to have repaired.  As he had guessed, his betrothed was the only person there; the quartette having dispersed with kindly tact, for which he gave them due credit.

“Don’t think hardly of me, dear,” he began, seating himself beside her on the sofa.

“Allow me to offer you a few of the finest cigars I have enjoyed for many years,” said Mr. Aylett, entering in season to check Frederic’s movement to encircle Mabel’s drooping form with his arm.  “You smoke, I believe?  You may have an opportunity of indulging in this solace in an empty stage.  At least, there is little probability that you will be denied the luxury by the presence of lady passengers.  I procured those in Havana, last winter.  In case you should like them well enough to order some for yourself, I will give you the address of the merchant from whom I purchased them.”

He wrote a line upon a card, as he might sign a beggar’s petition—­with a supercilious parade of benevolence—­and passed it to the other, who accepted it with a phrase of acknowledgment neither hearty nor grateful.  Then the master of the house paced the floor with a slow, regular step, his hands behind him; his countenance placidly ruminative, his thoughts apparently engaged with anything rather than the pain upon the corner-sofa, whose leave-taking he had mercilessly marred.  Frederic dumb and furious; Mabel equally dumb and amazed to alarm, knowing as she did that her brother’s actions were never purposeless, sat still, their hands clasped stealthily amid the folds of Mabel’s dress; their eyes saying the dear and passionate things forbidden to their tongues.  Neither would feign indifference, or attempt a lame dialogue upon other