ght of the hunt dinner at Foling, my heart
sank, even while I was indignant at any notion of distrusting Harold;
and it did indeed seem to me that he had learnt where to look for
strength and self-command, and that he had a real hatred and contempt
of evil. Yet I should have been more entirely happy about him if he
had not still held aloof from all those innermost ordinances, of which
he somehow did not feel the need, or understand the full drift. Nor
would he bow himself to give to any man the confidence or the influence
over him he had given to an incapable girl like me. And if I should
have feared for the best brought up, most religious of young men, in
such scenes as I was told were apt to take place at Killy Marey, how
could I not be anxious for my nephews? But nothing ever turns out as
one expects.

I was at Arked one day, and Lady Diana was telling me of the great
rambling house at Killy Marey, and how, when she arrived as a bride,
none of the doors would shut except two that would not open, behind one
of which lived the family ghost; how the paper hung in festoons on the
walls, and the chairs were of the loveliest primrose-coloured brocade;
and how the green of the meadows was so wonderful, that she was always
remembering it was the Emerald Isle; but how hopeless and impossible it
was to get anything properly done, and how no good could be done where
the Romish priests had interfered. All the old story of course. In
the midst, a telegraph paper was brought to her; she turned deadly
white, and bade me open it, for she could not. I knew she thought her
son had met his father's fate, and expected to astonish her with the
tidings that he was coming home by the next steamer, or that he had
sent some game, or the like. Alas! no; the mother's foreboding had
been too near the truth. The telegram was from Eustace: "Tracy has had
a bad horse accident. The doctor wishes for you."

There was nothing for it but to speed the mother and daughter on their
hurried start to catch the Holyhead packet and cross that night. I
went home to await in terror and trembling the despatch I might
receive, and to be enlivened by Mrs. Sam Alison's cheering accounts of
all the accidents she could recollect. "Horses are dangerous creatures
to meddle with, and your poor papa never would let me take the reins
when we kept a gig--which was when he was living, you know, my dear.
'You never can trust their heels,' he used to say; and it