such a nice fellow! And, Phoebe,
I have no time, but there is Mrs. Murrell with the child in the study.
Can you make her understand that Owen is far too ill to see them
to-night? Keep them off poor Lucy, that's all.'

'Lucy, that's all!' thought Phoebe, as she moved to obey. 'In spite of
all he says, Lucy will always be his first thought next to St. Matthew's;
nor do I know why I should mind it, considering what a vast space there
is between!'

'Now my pa is come, shan't I be a gentleman, and ride in a carriage?'
were the sounds that greeted Phoebe's ears as she opened the door of the
study, and beheld the small, lean child dressed in all his best; not one
of the gray linen frocks that Lucilla was constantly making for him, but
in a radiant tartan, of such huge pattern that his little tunic barely
contained a sample of one of each portentous check, made up crosswise, so
as to give a most comical, harlequin effect to his spare limbs and weird,
black eyes. The disappointment that Phoebe had to inflict was severe,
and unwittingly she was the messenger whom Mrs. Murrell was likely to
regard with the most suspicion and dislike. 'Come home along with me,
Hoing, my dear,' she said; 'you'll always find poor granny your friend,
even if your pa's 'art is like the nether millstone, as it was to your
poor ma, and as others may find it yet.'

'I have no doubt Mr. Sandbrook will see him when he is a little recovered
after his journey,' said Phoebe.

'No doubt, ma'am. I don't make a doubt, so long as there is no one to
put between them. I have 'eard how the sight of an 'opeful son was as
balm to the eyes of his father; but if I could see Mr. Fulmort--'

'My brother is gone to church. It was he who sent me to you.'

Mrs. Murrell had real confidence in Robert, whose friendliness had long
been proved, and it was less impossible to persuade her to leave the
house when she learnt that it was by his wish; but Phoebe did not wonder
at the dread with which an interview with her was universally regarded.

In returning from this mission, Phoebe encountered the stranger in the
lamp-light of the hall, intently examining the balustrade of the stairs.

'This is the drawing-room,' she courteously said, seeing that he seemed
not to know where to go.

'Thank you,' he said, following her. 'I was looking at the wood. What
is it? We have none like it.'

'It is Irish bog oak, and much admired.'

'I suppose all English houses can sc