you are right," I remarked rather viciously. "I certainly
hope you are. At present my sympathies lie in the other direction, and
I am disposed to say 'Poor Maria!'"

"Yes, love," said Mother Hubbard, "perhaps she has the worse of the
bargain; but I think the old fox has got into a trap that is going to
hold him very tight this time, and it will nip hard."

"I hope it nips until he squeals," I said impenitently.

This was on the Monday following Whitweek. The next day brought me a
long, chatty letter from the squire, who feels wonderfully better and
talks of coming home again soon. He cannot understand why the doctors
always say "not just yet." He is at Sorrento now, and chaffingly
condoles with me on the remote prospects of a continental trip, at any
rate on his account. I wonder if he guesses how relieved I am, and how
eagerly I anticipate his home-coming.

In him I seem to have a friend who understands, and I am beginning to
think that is the only real kind of friend. I have said all along that
I do not understand myself. I am always coming across odd little
tracts of territory in my nature which surprise me and make me feel
something of an explorer, whereas I cannot help feeling, somehow or
other, that the squire knows all about me, and could make a map of my
character if he chose, with all my moods and whims and angularities
accurately indicated, like so many rivers and mountains. And so far
from resenting this I am glad of it, because he is so kind and fatherly
with it all, and not a bit superior. Now the Cynic, although he is no
doubt a mighty clever man, makes you so frightfully conscious of his
cleverness.

By the way, I have made a discovery about him. He is a barrister, and
quite an eminent one in his way. I suppose I might have found this out
long ago by asking any of the Windyridge men, but for some occult
reason I have never cared to inquire. The discovery came about in this
way.

When I had finished reading the squire's letter, and before proceeding
to my work, I took up the _Airlee Despatch_ which Farmer Goodenough had
left with us, solely because it contained a short paragraph on the
"Wedding of a well-known Windyridge character"--no other, in fact, than
our friend Barjona.

As my eyes travelled cursorily over the columns they were arrested by
the following:

"Mr. Philip Derwent, whose brilliant advocacy admittedly secured a
verdict for the plaintiff in the recently concluded case