ridden over with him, would have come in, and gone up
with them, but he supposed Charlie had seized on him. (Poor Sir John,
his attempt at match-making did not flourish.) However, he had secured
Phoebe's most intense gratitude by his proposal, and down she came, a
very pretty picture, in her dark brown dress, scarlet cloak, and round,
brown felt hat, with the long, curly, brown feather tipped with scarlet,
her favourite winter robin colouring. Her cheeks were brilliant, and her
eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the
shadiness they sometimes wanted. And it was all from a ridiculous
trepidation which made it well-nigh impossible to bring out what she was
longing to say--'So you think Mr. Randolf like Mr. Charlecote.'

Fortunately he was beforehand with her, for both the likeness and the
path through the pine woods reminded him strongly of his old friend, and
he returned to the subject. 'So you are a great admirer of dear old
Charlecote, Phoebe: you can't remember him?'

'No, but Robert does, and I sometimes think I do.' (Then it came.) 'You
think Mr. Randolf like him?' Thanks to her hat, she could blush more
comfortably now.

'I did not see him near. It was only something in air and figure.
People inherit those things wonderfully. Now, my son Charlie sits on
horseback exactly like his grandfather, whom he never saw; and John--'

Oh! was he going to run away on family likenesses? Phoebe would not hear
the 'and John;' and observed, 'Mr. Charlecote was his godfather, was he
not?'

Which self-evident fact brought him back again to 'Yes; and I only wish
he had seen more of him! These are his plantations, I declare, that he
used to make so much of!'

'Yes, that is the reason Miss Charlecote is so fond of them.'

'Miss Charlecote! When I think of him, I have no patience with her. I
do believe he kept single all his life for her sake: and why she never
would have him I never could guess. You ladies are very unreasonable
sometimes, Phoebe.'

Phoebe tried to express a rational amount of wonder at poor Honor's
taste, but grew incoherent in fear lest it should be irrational, and was
rather frightened at finding Sir John looking at her with some amusement;
but he was only thinking of how willingly the poor little heiress of the
Mervyns had once been thrown at Humfrey Charlecote's head. But he went
on to tell her of all that her hero had ever been to him and to the
county, and of