Dorothy went straight to lady Margaret’s parlour, and made her humble apology for the trouble and alarm her dog had occasioned.  Lady Margaret assured her that the children were nothing the worse, not having been even much terrified, for the dog had not gone a hair’s-breadth beyond rough play.  Poor bunny was the only one concerned who had not yet recovered his equanimity.  He did not seem positively hurt, she said, but as he would not eat the lovely clover under his nose where he lay in Molly’s crib, it was clear that the circulation of his animal spirits had been too rudely checked.  Thereupon Dorothy begged to be taken to the nursery, for, being familiar with all sorts of tame animals, she knew rabbits well.  As she stood with the little creature in her arms, gently stroking its soft whiteness, the children gathered round her, and she bent herself to initiate a friendship with them, while doing her best to comfort and restore their favourite.  Success in the latter object she found the readiest way to the former.  Under the sweet galvanism of her stroking hand the rabbit was presently so much better that when she offered him a blade of the neglected clover, the equilateral triangle of his queer mouth was immediately set in motion, the trefoil vanished, and when he was once more placed in the crib he went on with his meal as if nothing had happened.  The children were in ecstasies, and cousin Dorothy was from that moment popular and on the way to be something better.

When supper time came, lady Margaret took her again to the dining-room, where there was much laughter over the story of the two marquises, lord Worcester driving the joke in twenty different directions, but so kindly that Dorothy, instead of being disconcerted or even discomposed thereby, found herself emboldened to take a share in the merriment.  When the company rose, lady Margaret once more led her to her own room, where, working at her embroidery frame, she chatted with her pleasantly for some time.  Dorothy would have been glad if she had set her work also, for she could ill brook doing nothing.  Notwithstanding her quietness of demeanour, amounting at times to an appearance of immobility, her nature was really an active one, and it was hard for her to sit with her hands in her lap.  Lady Margaret at length perceived her discomfort.

‘I fear, my child, I am wearying you,’ she said.

‘It is only that I want something to do, madam,’ said Dorothy.

‘I have nothing at hand for you to-night,’ returned lady Margaret.  ’Suppose we go and find my lord;—­I mean my own lord Herbert.  I have not seen him since we broke fast together, and you have not seen him at all.  I am afraid he must think of leaving home again soon, he seems so anxious to get something or other finished.’

As she spoke, she pushed aside her frame, and telling Dorothy to go and fetch herself a cloak, went into the next room, whence she presently returned, wrapped in a hooded mantle.  As soon as Dorothy came, she led her along the corridor to a small lobby whence a stair descended to the court, issuing close by the gate.