a kindly interest both
in Milly and me; and Cousin Monica called her Mary, and sometimes Polly.
That was all I knew of her for the present.

So very pleasantly the time passed by till the dressing-bell rang, and we
ran away to our room.

'Did I say anything very bad?' asked poor Milly, standing exactly before
me, so soon as our door was shut.

'Nothing, Milly; you are doing admirably.'

'And I do look a great fool, don't I?' she demanded.

'You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool.'

'I watch everything. I think I'll learn it at last; but it comes a little
troublesome at first; and they do talk different from what I used--you were
quite right there.'

When we returned to the drawing-room, we found the party already assembled,
and chatting, evidently with spirit.

The village doctor, whose name I forget, a small man, grey, with shrewd
grey eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagration extended to his
rugged cheeks, and touched his chin and forehead, was conversing, no doubt
agreeably, with Mary, as Cousin Monica called her guest.

Over my shoulder, Milly whispered--

'Mr. Carysbroke.'

And Milly was quite right: that gentleman chatting with Lady Knollys, his
elbow resting on the chimney-piece, was, indeed, our acquaintance of the
Windmill Wood. He instantly recognised us, and met us with his pleased and
intelligent smile.

'I was just trying to describe to Lady Knollys the charming scenery of the
Windmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance,
Miss Ruthyn. Even in this beautiful county I know of nothing prettier.'

Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing words.

'What a sweet scene!' said Cousin Monica: 'only think of her never bringing
me through it. She reserves it, I fancy, for her romantic adventures; and
you, I know, are very benevolent, Ilbury, and all that kind of thing; but I
am not quite certain that you would have walked along that narrow parapet,
over a river, to visit a sick old woman, if you had not happened to see two
very pretty demoiselles on the other side.'

'What an ill-natured speech! I must either forfeit my character for
disinterested benevolence, so justly admired, or disavow a motive that does
such infinite credit to my taste,' exclaimed Mr. Carysbroke. 'I think a
charitable person would have said that a philanthropist, in prosecuting his
virtuous, but perilous vocation, was unexpectedly _rewarded_ by a visi