essed with the fellow pony. They
belonged to Lady Hartledon; sometimes she drove only one; and the groom,
a young lad of fourteen, light and slim, rode the other: sometimes both
ponies were in the carriage; and on those occasions the boy sat by her
side, and drove.

"What's the matter, Edward?" called out Lord Hartledon to his son.

"Young lordship wants to ride the pony, my lord," said the groom. "My
lady ordered me to ride it."

At this juncture Lady Hartledon appeared on the scene, ready for her
drive. She had intended to take her little son with her--as she generally
did--but the child boisterously demanded that he should ride the pony for
once, and she weakly yielded. Lord Hartledon's private opinion, looking
on, was that she was literally incapable of denying him any earthly thing
he chose to demand. He went out.

"He had better go with you in the carriage, Maude."

"Not at all. He sits very well now, and the pony's perfectly quiet."

"But he is too young to ride by the side of any vehicle. It is not safe.
Let him sit with you as usual."

"Nonsense! Edward, you shall ride the pony. Help him up, Ralph."

"No, Maude. He--"

"Be quiet!" said Lady Hartledon, bending towards her husband and speaking
in low tones. "It is not for you to interfere. Would you deny him
everything?"

A strangely bitter expression sat on Val's lips. Not of anger; not even
mortification, but sad, cruel pain. He said no more.

And the cavalcade started. Lady Hartledon driving, the boy-groom sitting
beside her, and Eddie's short legs striding the pony. They were keeping
to the Park, she called to her husband, and she should drive slowly.

There was no real danger, as Val believed; only he did not like the
child's wilful temper given way to. With a deep sigh he turned indoors
for his hat, and went strolling down the avenue. Mrs. Capper dropped a
curtsey as he passed the lodge.

"Have you heard from your son yet?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord, many thanks to you. The school suits him bravely."

Turning out of the gates, he saw Floyd, the miller, walking slowly along.
The man had been confined to his bed for weeks in the summer, with an
attack of acute rheumatism, and to the house afterwards. It was the first
time they had met since that morning long ago, when the miller brought up
the purse. Lord Hartledon did not know him at first, he was so altered;
pale and reduced.

"Is it really you, Floyd?"

"What's left of me, my lord."