er ways
and obstinate!"

"If you can't manage her, who can?--Mr. March?"

Clara shook her head. Then reluctantly, for though honestly ready to
lay down her life for her mistress, she found it far from easy to
invite supersession in respect of her, she said:--"Miss St. Quentin's
more likely to get round my lady than any one else."

"Well, then, I'll talk to her. Where is Miss St. Quentin?"

"Here, Dr. Knott. Do you want me?"

Honoria had strolled into the room from the stairhead, her attention
arrested by the all-too-familiar sound--since sorrowful happenings
often of late had brought him to Brockhurst--of the doctor's voice. The
skirt of the young lady's habit, gathered up in her left hand,
displayed a slightly unconventional length of muddy riding-boot. The
said skirt, her tan, covert coat, and slouched, felt hat, were furred
with wet. Her garments, indeed, showed evident traces of hard service,
and, though notably well cut, were far from new or smart. They were
sad-coloured, moreover, as is the fashion of garments designed for
work. And this weather-stained, mud-bespattered costume, taken in
connection with her pale, sensitive face, her gallant bearing, and the
luminous smile with which she greeted not only Dr. Knott but the
slightly flustered Clara, offered a picture pensive in tone, but very
harmonious, and of a singularly sincere and restful quality. To all,
indeed, save those troubled by an accusing conscience and fear of
detection, Honoria St. Quentin's presence brought a sense of security
and reassurance at this period of her development. Her enthusiasms
remained to her, but they were tempered by a wider experience and a
larger charity--at least in the majority of cases.

"I'm in a beastly mess," she observed casually.

"So are we," Knott answered. He had a great liking for this young lady,
finding in her a certain stoicism along with a quickness of practical
help. "But our mess is worse than yours, in that it is internal rather
than external. Yours'll brush off. Not so ours--eh, Clara? There, you
can go. I'll talk things over with Miss St. Quentin, and she'll talk
'em over with you later."

Honoria's expression had grown anxious. She spoke in a lower tone of
voice.

"Is Lady Calmady worse?"

"In a sense, yes--simply because she is no better. And she's ill, I
tell you, just as dangerously ill as any woman can be, who has nothing
whatever actually the matter with her."

"Except an only son," put in