w, broad
forehead, and told himself that in his daughter he had just cause for
pride. He looked again, and told himself that his brother was right;
she had not the air of a maid whose lover returns not from the wars.
Her lips were smiling, and the eyes--low-lidded and blue as the
heavens--were bright with mirth.

"Why sit you there so glum," she cried, "whilst my uncle, they tell me,
is going on a journey?"

Gregory was minded to put her feelings to the test.

"Kenneth," he replied with significant emphasis, watching her closely.

The mirth faded from her eyes, and they took on a grave expression that
added to their charm. But Gregory had looked for fear, leastways deep
concern, and in this he was disappointed.

"What of him, father?" she asked, approaching.

"Naught, and that's the rub. It is time we had news, and as none comes,
your uncle goes to seek it."

"Think you that ill can have befallen him?"

Gregory was silent a moment, weighing his answer. Then

"We hope not, sweetheart," said he. "He may be a prisoner. We last had
news of him from Worcester, and 'tis a week and more since the battle
was fought there. Should he be a captive, your uncle has sufficient
influence to obtain his enlargement."

Cynthia sighed, and moved towards the window.

"Poor Kenneth," she murmured gently. "He may be wounded."

"We shall soon learn," he answered. His disappointment grew keener;
where he had looked for grief he found no more than an expression of
pitying concern. Nor was his disappointment lessened when, after a spell
of thoughtful silence, she began to comment upon the condition of the
trees in the park below. Gregory had it in his mind to chide her for
this lack of interest in the fate of her intended husband, but he let
the impulse pass unheeded. After all, if Kenneth lived she should marry
him. Hitherto she had been docile and willing enough to be guided by
him; she had even displayed a kindness for Kenneth; no doubt she would
do so again when Joseph returned with him--unless he were among the
Worcester slain, in which case, perhaps, it would prove best that his
fate was not to cause her any prostration of grief.

"The sky is heavy, father," said Cynthia from the window. "Poor uncle!
He will have rough weather for his journey."

"I rejoice that someone wastes pity on poor uncle," growled Joseph,
who re-entered, "this uncle whom your father drives out of doors in all
weathers to look for his daughter's trua