?"

"Never spoke to him, as I knows on, my lord. Afore that drowning of his
lordship last year, Davy was the boldest rip going," added the man, who
had long since fallen into the epithet popularly applied to his son.
"Since then he don't dare say his soul's his own. We had him laid up
before the winter, and I know 'twas nothing but fear."

Lord Hartledon could not make much of the story, and had no time to
linger. Administering a word of general encouragement, he continued his
way, his thoughts going back to the interview with Anne Ashton, a line or
two of Longfellow's "Fire of Driftwood" rising up in his mind--

"Of what had been and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead."

CHAPTER XXVII.

A TETE-A-TETE BREAKFAST.

The Dowager-Countess of Kirton stood in the sunny breakfast-room at
Hartledon, surveying the well-spread table with complacency; for it
appeared to be rather more elaborately set out than usual, and no one
loved good cheer better than she. When she saw two cups and saucers on
the cloth instead of one, it occurred to her that Maude must, by caprice,
be coming down, which she had not done of late. The dowager had arrived
at midnight from Garchester, in consequence of having missed the earlier
train, and found nearly all the house in retirement. She was in a furious
humour, and no one had told her of the arrival of her son-in-law; no one
ever did tell her any more than they were obliged to do; for she was not
held in estimation at Hartledon.

"Potted tongue," she exclaimed, dodging round the table, and lifting
various covers. "Raised pie; I wonder what's in it? And what's that stuff
in jelly? It looks delicious. This is the result of the blowing-up I gave
Hedges the other day; nothing like finding fault. Hot dishes too. I
suppose Maude gave out that she should be down this morning. All rubbish,
fancying herself ill: she's as well as I am, but gives way like a
sim--A-a-a-ah!"

The exclamation was caused by the unexpected vision of Lord Hartledon.

"How are you, Lady Kirton?"

"Where on earth did you spring from?"

"From my room."

"What's the good of your appearing before people like a ghost, Hartledon?
When did you arrive?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"And time you did, I think, with your poor wife fretting herself to death
about you. How is she this morning?"

"Very well."

"Ugh!" You must imagine this sound as something between a grunt and a
groan, that the esti