y in doing it. He understood and trusted the man after
that, warmed in thinking how politic his impulses could be.

His intention of riding up to Croridge at noon to request his interview
with Mr. Kirby-Levellier was then stated.

'The key of the position, as you said,' Mr. Wythan remarked, not
proffering an opinion of it more than was expressed by a hearty, rosy
countenance, that had to win its way with the earl before excuse was
found for the venturesome repetition of his phrase.

Cantering back to that home of the loves of Gower Woodseer and Madge
Winch, the thought of his first act of penance done, without his feeling
the poorer for it, reconciled Fleetwood to the aspect of the hollow
place.

He could not stay beneath the roof. His task of breakfasting done, he was
off before the morning's delivery of letters, riding round the country
under Croridge, soon up there again. And Henrietta might be at home, he
was reminded by hearing band-music as he followed the directions to the
house named Stoneridge. The band consisted of eight wind instruments;
they played astonishingly well for itinerant musicians. By curious
chance, they were playing a selection from the Pirata; presently he heard
the notes to 'il mio tradito amor.' They had hit upon Henrietta's
favourite piece!

At the close of it he dismounted, flung the reins to his groom, and,
addressing a compliment to the leader, was deferentially saluted with a
'my lord.' Henrietta stood at the window, a servant held the door open
for him to enter; he went in, and the beautiful young woman welcomed him:
'Oh, my dear lord, you have given me such true delight! How very generous
of you!' He protested ignorance. She had seen him speak to the conductor
and receive the patron's homage; and who but he knew her adored of
operas, or would have had the benevolent impulse to think of solacing her
exile from music in the manner so sure of her taste! She was at her
loveliest: her features were one sweet bloom, as of the sunny flower
garden; and, touched to the heart by the music and the kindness, she
looked the look that kisses; innocently, he felt, feeling himself on the
same good ground while he could own he admired the honey creature, much
as an amateur may admire one of the pictures belonging to the nation.

'And you have come . . . ?' she said. 'We are to believe in happy
endings?'

He shrugged, as the modest man should, who says:

'If it depends on me'; but the words were