discover unpunctuality in others.

Her portrait, by Raeburn, which now adorns the National Gallery, had
been painted in the previous year. You will have seen it, or at least
you will have seen one of its numerous replicas, and you will have
remarked its singular, delicate, rose-petal loveliness--the gleaming
golden head, the flawless outline of face and feature, the immaculate
skin, the dark blue eyes with their look of innocence awakening.

Thus was she now in her artfully simple gown of flowered muslin with its
white fichu folded across her neck that was but a shade less white; thus
was she, just as Raeburn had painted her, saving, of course, that her
expression, matching her words, was petulant.

"I was detained by the arrival of a mail-bag from Vizeu," Sir Terence
excused himself, as he took the chair which Mullins, the elderly,
pontifical butler, drew out for him. "Ned is attending to it, and will
be kept for a few moments yet."

Lady O'Moy's expression quickened. "Are there no letters for me?"

"None, my dear, I believe."

"No word from Dick?" Again there was that note of ever ready petulance.
"It is too provoking. He should know that he must make me anxious by his
silence. Dick is so thoughtless--so careless of other people's feelings.
I shall write to him severely."

The adjutant paused in the act of unfolding his napkin. The prepared
explanation trembled on his lips; but its falsehood, repellent to him,
was not uttered.

"I should certainly do so, my dear," was all he said, and addressed
himself to his breakfast.

"What news from headquarters?" Miss Armytage asked him. "Are things
going well?"

"Much better now that Principal Souza's influence is at an end. Cotton
reports that the destruction of the mills in the Mondego valley is being
carried out systematically."

Miss Armytage's dark, thoughtful eyes became wistful.

"Do you know, Terence," she said, "that I am not without some sympathy
for the Portuguese resistance to Lord Wellington's decrees. They must
bear so terribly hard upon the people. To be compelled with their own
hands to destroy their homes and lay waste the lands upon which they
have laboured--what could be more cruel?"

"War can never be anything but cruel," he answered gravely. "God help
the people over whose lands it sweeps. Devastation is often the least of
the horrors marching in its train."

"Why must war be?" she asked him, in intelligent rebellion against that
most monst